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AN  ARTIST’S  LETTERS 
FROM  JAPAN 


mm 


THE  GREAT  STATUE  OF  BUDDHA  AT  KAMAKURA. 


AN  ARTIST’S  LETTERS 
FROM  JAPAN 


BY 

JOHN  LA  FARGE 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1903 


Copyright,  1890,  1891,  1893,  1897, 
By  The  Century  Co. 


The  De  Vinne  Press. 


To  Henry  Adams,  Esq. 

My  Dear  Adams:  Without  you  I  should  not  have 
seen  the  place,  without  you  I  should  not  have  seen  the 
things  of  which  these  notes  are  impressions.  If  anything 
worth  repeating  has  been  said  by  me  in  these  letters,  it 
has  probably  come  from  you,  or  has  been  suggested  by 
being  with  you  —  perhaps  even  in  the  way  of  contradic¬ 
tion.  And  you  may  be  amused  by  the  lighter  talk  of  the 
artist  that  merely  describes  appearances,  or  covers  them 
with  a  tissue  of  dreams.  And  you  alone  will  know  how 
much  has  been  withheld  that  might  have  been  indiscreetly 
said. 

If  only  we  had  found  Nirvana  —  but  he  was  right  who 
warned  us  that  we  were  late  in  this  season  of  the  world. 

J.  L.  F. 


vii 


WHICH  IN  ENGLISH  MEANS  I 


And  you  too,  Okakura  San  :  I  wish  to  put  your 
name  before  these  notes,  written  at  the  time  when  I  first 
met  you,  because  the  memories  of  your  talks  are  con¬ 
nected  with  my  liking  of  your  country  and  of  its  story, 
and  because  for  a  time  you  were  Japan  to  me.  I  hope, 
too,  that  some  thoughts  of  yours  will  be  detected  in  what 
I  write,  as  a  stream  runs  through  grass  —  hidden,  per¬ 
haps,  but  always  there.  We  are  separated  by  many 
things  besides  distance,  but  you  know  that  the  blossoms 
scattered  by  the  waters  of  the  torrent  shall  meet  at  its 
end. 


IX 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

An  Artist’s  Letters  from  Japan . . 

From  Tokio  to  Nikko . 29 

The  Shrines  of  Iyeyasu  and  Iyemitsu  in  the  Holy 

Mountain  of  Nikko . 52 

Iyemitsu . 85 

Tao  :  The  Way . 99 

Japanese  Architecture . 119 

Bric-a-Brac  . 128 

Sketching . 159 

Nirvana . 175 

Sketching. — The  Flutes  of  Iyeyasu . 185 

Sketching. — The  Pagoda  in  Rain . 193 

From  Nikko  to  Kamakura  . 195 

Nikko  to  Yokohama . 202 

Yokohama  —  Kamakura . 216 

Kioto . 230 

A  Japanese  Day. — From  Kioto  to  Gifu . 253 

From  Kambara  to  Miyanoshita  —  A  Letter  from  a  Kago  265 

Postscript . .  .  280 

Appendix . 281 


XI 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

The  great  Statue  of  Buddha  at  Kamakura.  Frontispiece. 

The  Kuruma . 5 

Castle,  and  Moat  with  Lotus . 9 

At  the  Well . 11 

Ancient . 15 

No  Dancer  with  Mask,  representing  the  Sake  Imp  .  19 

Modern . 23 

The  Lake  in  Uyeno  Park . 28 

A  Torii . 32 

Our  Runner . 36 

In  the  great  Avenue  of  Cryptomeria . 39 

Nikko-san . 43 

Thf,  Waterfall  in  our  Garden . 47 

Portrait-statue  of  Iyeyasu  in  ceremonial  Dress  .  .  53 

Avenue  to  Temple  of  Iyeyasu . *55 

Sketch  of  Statue  of  Iyeyasu  Tokugawa . 57 

Stable  of  sacred  Horses . 61 

Sacred  Font . 65 

Young  Priest . 68 

Details  of  Bases  of  Cloister  Walls,  inner  Court  .  71 

Detail  of  Cloister  Walls,  inner  Court . 75 

Lintel,  Bracket  Capital . 77 

Inside  the  “Cat  Gate”— Gate  to  the  Tomb  ...  79 

Tomb  of  Iyeyasu,  Tokugawa . 83 

Looking  down  on  the  Water-tank,  or  sacred  Font, 

FROM  THE  SECOND  GATE . 87 

A  Priest  at  Iyemitsu  .  88 

In  THE  THIRD  GATE  OF  THE  TEMPLE  OF  IYEMITSU,  LOOK¬ 
ING  TOWARD  THE  FOURTH . 91 

xiii 


PAGE 

A  Priest  at  Iyemitsu  . . 93 

Kuwanon,  by  Okio  .  94 

Entrance  to  the  Tomb  of  Iyemitsu . 96 

Painting  by  Chin-nan-pin . 135 

Signature  of  Hokusai . .  .  .  149 

Inscription  on  old  Lacquer . 152 

Inscription  from  Ho-riu-ji . .  .  .155 

Bed  of  the  Dayagawa,  Nikko . 161 

Mountains  in  Fog  before  our  House . 165 

Portrait  of  a  Priest . .  .  169 

Old  Pagoda  near  the  Priests’  Houses . 171 

Statue  of  Oya  Jizo . 177 

Peasant  Girls  and  Mountain  Horses  of  Nikko  .  .  .181 

Our  Landlord  the  Buddhist  Priest . 187 

Kioto  in  Fog— Morning .  ....  231 

Peasant  Woman  —  Thresher . 239 

A  Pilgrim . 247 

Fusi-yama  from  Kambara  Beach  .  257 

Fishing  with  Cormorants . 261 

Peasant  carrying  Fodder,  and  Bull  carrying  Load  .  267 
A  Runner  in  the  Rain . 275 


XIV 


AN  ARTIST’S  LETTERS 
FROM  JAPAN 


AN  ARTIST’S  LETTERS 
FROM  JAPAN 


Yokohama,  July  3,  1886. 


DRIVED  yesterday.  On  the  cover  of  the  letter  which 


/v  I  mailed  from  our  steamer  I  had  but  time  to  write : 
“  We  are  coming  in  ;  it  is  like  the  picture  books.  Any¬ 
thing  that  I  can  add  will  only  be  a  filling  in  of  detail.” 

We  were  in  the  great  bay  when  I  came  up  on  deck  in 
the  early  morning.  The  sea  was  smooth  like  the  bril¬ 
liant  blank  paper  of  the  prints  ;  a  vast  surface  of  water 
reflecting  the  light  of  the  sky  as  if  it  were  thicker  air. 
Far-off  streaks  of  blue  light,  like  finest  washes  of  the 
brush,  determined  distances.  Beyond,  in  a  white  haze, 
the  square  white  sails  spotted  the  white  horizon  and 
floated  above  it. 

The  slackened  beat  of  the  engine  made  a  great  noise 
in  the  quiet  waters.  Distant  high  hills  of  foggy  green 
marked  the  new  land  ;  nearer  us,  junks  of  the  shapes  you 
know,  in  violet  transparency  of  shadow,  and  five  or  six 
war-ships  and  steamers,  red  and  black,  or  white,  looking 
barbarous  and  out  of  place,  but  still  as  if  they  were  part 
of  us ;  and  spread  all  around  us  a  fleet  of  small  boats, 
manned  by  rowers  standing  in  robes  flapping  about 
them,  or  tucked  in  above  their  waists.  There  were 
so  many  that  the  crowd  looked  blue  and  white  — 


the  color  of  their  dresses  repeating  the  sky  in  prose. 
Still,  the  larger  part  were  mostly  naked,  and  their  legs 
and  arms  and  backs  made  a  great  novelty  to  our  eyes, 
accustomed  to  nothing  but  our  ship,  and  the  enormous 
space,  empty  of  life,  which  had  surrounded  us  for  days. 
The  muscles  of  the  boatmen  stood  out  sharply  on  their 
small  frames.  They  had  almost  all  —  at  least  those  who 
were  young  —  fine  wrists  and  delicate  hands,  and  a  hand¬ 
some  setting  of  the  neck.  The  foot  looked  broad,  with 
toes  very  square.  They  were  excitedly  waiting  to  help 
in  the  coaling  and  unloading,  and  soon  we  saw  them  begin 


to  work,  carrying  great  loads  with  much  good-humored 
chattering.  Around  us  played  the  smallest  boats  with 
rowers  standing  up  and  sculling.  Then  the  market-boat 
came  rushing  to  us,  its  standing  rowers  bending  and  ris¬ 
ing,  their  thighs  rounding  and  insteps  sharpening,  what 
small  garments  they  had  fluttering  like  scarfs,  so  that  our 
fair  missionaries  turned  their  backs  to  the  sight. 

Two  boys  struggling  at  the  great  sculls  in  one  of  the 
small  boats  were  called  by  us  out  of  the  crowd,  and  car¬ 
ried  us  off  to  look  at  the  outgoing  steamer,  which  takes 
our  mail,  and  which  added  its  own  confusion  and  its  at- 


tendant  crowd  of  boats  to  all  the  animation  on  the  water. 
Delicious  and  curious  moment,  this  first  sense  of  being 
free  from  the  big  prison  of  the  ship ;  of  the  pleasure  of 
directing  one’s  own  course  ;  of  not  understanding  a  word 
of  what  one  hears,  and  yet  of  getting  at  a  meaning 
through  every  sense ;  of  being  close  to  the  top  of  the 
waves  on  which  we  dance,  instead  of  looking  down  upon 
them  from  the  tall  ship’s  sides ;  of  seeing  the  small  limbs 
of  the  boys  burning  yellow  in  the  sun,  and  noticing  how 
they  recall  the  dolls  of  their  own  country  in  the  expres¬ 
sion  of  their  eyes ;  how  every  little  detail  of  the  boat  is 
different,  and  yet  so  curiously  the  same ;  and  return  to 
the  first  sensation  of  feeling  while  lying  flat  on  the  bot¬ 
tom  of  the  boat,  at  the  level  of  our  faces  the  tossing  sky- 
blue  water  dotted  with  innumerable  orange  copies  of  the 
sun.  Then  subtle  influences  of  odor,  the  sense  of  some¬ 
thing  very  foreign,  of  the  presence  of  another  race,  came 
up  with  the  smell  of  the  boat. 

We  climbed  up  the  side  of  the  big  steamer  and  found 
the  Doctor  there,  who  told  us  that  he  had  been  expect¬ 
ing  us  for  a  whole  month  ;  so  that  he  soon  took  posses¬ 
sion  of  us,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  the  hotel  launch, 
and  at  the  wharf,  and  passing  the  custom  house  and  its 
officers,  who  let  everything  go  through  quickly  except 
my  suspicious  water-color  blocks.  Outside  of  the  gate, 
in  the  street,  we  found  the  long-expected  jinrikisha ,  an 
arrangement  that  you  know  probably  as  well  as  I  do  — 
a  two-wheeled  perambulator  or  gig,  very  small,  with  a 
hood  that  is  usually  lowered,  and  with  a  man  in  the  shafts 
Our  fellows  were  in  blue-black  clothes,  a  big  inscription 
on  their  backs;  and  they  wore  apron-like  vests,  close-fit¬ 
ting  trousers,  and  broad  straw  hats  poised  on  their  heads. 
But  you  know  all  about  these ;  and  I  have  only  to  add 
that  we  were  trundled  off  to  our  hotel,  along  the  pretty 
quay  which  edges  that  part  of  the  town,  past  European 

3 


houses,  unlike  ours,  and  having  a  certain  character  which 
will  probably  appear  very  commonplace  later,  because  it 
is  not  beautiful,  but  which  is  novel  yet  to  us.  Our  hotel 
is  also  on  the  quay,  just  at  a  corner  where  a  canal  breaks 
in,  and  where  we  can  see  big  walls  and  trees  on  the  other 
side.  Our  rooms  open  on  the  water  —  that  same  blue 
water  spangled  with  sunshine  and  fading  into  sky.  There 
are  men-of-war  and  steamers  far  out;  picturesque  junks 
sailing  past  rapidly,  flattened  out  into  mere  edges  of 
shadow  and  light  against  the  sea  and  the  sky,  their  great 
hollow  sterns  with  the  rudder  far  inboard,  and  sails  which 
are  open  at  the  seams.  Not  far  from  us  was  a  little  sharp- 


pointed  boat  with  a  man  fishing,  his  big  round  hat  as  im¬ 
portant  as  any  part  of  the  boat.  It  was  already  late  in 
the  day.  European  children  were  out  with  their  Japan¬ 
ese  nurses  ;  from  time  to  time  a  phaeton  or  a  curricle 
passed  with  European  occupants,  and  even  in  this  tremen¬ 
dous  heat  ladies  rode  out  on  horseback.  But  the  human 
beings  are  not  the  novelty,  not  even  the  Japanese ;  what 
is  absorbingly  new  is  the  light,  its  whiteness,  its  silvery 
milkiness.  We  have  come  into  it  as  through  an  open  door 
after  fourteen  gray  days  of  the  Pacific  which  ended  only 
at  sunrise  this  very  morning.  And  we  looked  again  at 
all  the  light  outside,  from  the  dining-room,  where  we 
lunched,  where  the  waiters  slipped  about  in  black  clothes 


THE  KURUMA. 


like  those  of  the  runners,  and  where  we  were  joined  at 
table  by  a  foreign  gentleman  with  high  cheek-bones,  yel¬ 
low  face,  and  slanting  eyes,  and  dressed  in  the  latest 
European  fashion  with  high  collar,  four-in-hand  scarf,  and 
pointed  shoes.  He  was  very  courteous,  and  managed 
what  little  English  he  used  as  skilfully  as  he  dresses. 
And  he  gave  me  a  touch  of  the  far  East  in  the  story  of 
his  being  here  ;  for  he  is  under  a  cloud,  an  amiable  exile 
whose  return  to  his  native  land  might  involve  his  being 
boiled  in  oil,  or  other  ingenious  form  of  death.  For  well 
as  he  figured  at  luncheon  with  us,  I  hear  that  he  has  been 
obliged  to  leave  because  of  his  having  poisoned  too  many 
of  his  guests  one  day  at  table, —  former  enemies  of  his, — 
and  because  of  his  having  despatched  with  the  sword  those 
whose  digestion  had  resisted  his  efforts  at  conciliation. 
However  this  may  be,  his  extradition  is  demanded ;  to 
which  he  objects,  invoking  Western  ideas  of  civilization, 
and  protesting  that  his  excesses  have  been  merely  politi¬ 
cal.  Then,  late  in  the  afternoon,  we  sauntered  out  into  the 
Japanese  quarter — walking,  so  that  we  might  mingle  with 
the  gray,  black,  and  blue  crowd,  and  respectfully  followed 
by  our  jinrikisha  men,  who  slowly  dragged  our  carriages 
behind  them,  like  grooms  following  their  masters.  We 
stopped  at  little  curio  shops  and  bargained  over  miserable 
odds  and  ends,  calling  up,  I  feel  sure,  the  unexpressed 
contempt  of  the  Doctor,  the  great  collector  of  precious 
lacquers  ;  but  it  is  so  amusing  to  see  things  as  they  are, 
and  not  as  they  should  be.  We  went  into  a  show  which 
had  an  enormous  draped  sign  outside,  and  where,  in  un¬ 
certain  darkness,  an  old,  miserable,  distorted  dwarf  played 
the  part  of  a  spider  in  a  web,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
fiendish  music  and  the  deolamation  of  the  showman. 
Then  we  lingered  outside  of  a  booth  in  which  a  wrestling 
match  was  going  on,  but  did  not  enter,  and  we  saw  the 
big  wrestlers  go  in  or  come  out,  their  shoulders  far  above 

7 


the  heads  of  a  smaller  race  of  men,  and  we  turned  at 
every  moment  to  look  at  the  children,  many  of  whom  are 
so  pretty,  and  who  seem  to  have  an  easy  time  of  it.  Men 
carry  them  in  their  arms  as  women  do  with  us,  and  many 
a  little  elder  sister  walks  about  with  the  infant  of  the  fam¬ 
ily  slung  behind  her  maternal  shoulders.  And  then  there 
are  curious  combinations  of  Western  and  Eastern  dress  — 
rarely  successful.  Our  hats  and  shoes  and  umbrellas 
—  all  made  here,  are  used,  and  our  ugly  shirts  stiffen  out 
the  folds  of  the  soft  Japanese  robes  ;  but  the  multitude 
wear  their  usual  dress  and  make  no  abuse  of  hats. 

Wearied  by  the  novelty,  every  detail  of  which,  however, 
was  known  to  us  before,  we  walked  back  in  the  white, 
milky  sunset,  which  was  like  a  brilliant  twilight. 

July  5. 

We  made  our  first  visit  to  town  yesterday;  that  is  to 
say,  we  went  to  Tokio,  which  is  about  twenty  miles  off. 
Of  course  we  took  our  jinrikishas  at  the  door  of  the  hotel, 
and  passing  through  the  wide  Yokohama  streets,  saw  the 
semi -European  houses,  some  with  high  garden  walls  in 
which  are  small  doors  :  there  are  sidewalks,  too,  and  Eu¬ 
ropean  shops,  and  Colonial  buildings,  post-office,  and  tele¬ 
graph  office  ;  and  the  Japanese  kura,  or  storehouses  - — 
heavy  tile-roofed  buildings  with  black  and  white  earthen 
surfaces,  the  black  polished  to  a  glaze,  as  was  done  with 
Greek  and  Etruscan  vases.  They  have  deep  windows  or 
doors,  recessed  like  our  safes,  with  a  great  air  of  solidity, 
which  contrasts  with  that  temporary  wooden  structure, 
the  usual  Japanese  house.  I  came  near  saying  that  the 
little  railway  station  is  like  ours  ;  but  it  is  better  than 
most  of  ours,  with  neat  arrangements.  We  entered  the 
little  cars;  I  noticed,  in- the  third  class,  Japanese  curled 
up  on  the  seats.  The  grade  is  as  level  as  a  table,  the 
landscape  is  lovely,  and  we  saw  the  shapes  we  know  so 


CASTLE,  AND  MOAT  WITH  LOTUS. 


well  in  the  prints  —  the  curious  shapes  of  the  Japanese 
pines;  little  temples  on  the  hillside;  and  rice-fields  with 
their  network  of  causeways,  occasionally  a  horse  or  a 
peasant  threading  them.  The  land  is  cultivated  like  a 
garden,  the  lotus  leaves  fill  the  ditches,  and  one  or  two 
pink  flowers  are  just  out.  From  time  to  time  we  saw 
stretches  of  blue  sea.  And  once,  for  an  instant,  as  I 
looked  up  into  the  hazy,  clouded  sky,  far  beyond  the 
hills,  that  were  lost  in  the  mist  into  which  the  rice-field 
stretched,  I  saw  a  pale,  clear  blue  opening  in  which  was 
an  outline  more  distinct,  something  very  pure,  the  edge 
of  a  mountain,  looking  as  if  it  belonged  to  another  world 
than  the  dewy  moist  one  in  which  we  are —  the  cone  of 
Fusi-yama. 

On  passing  through  the  station,  very  much  like  the 
other  with  its  various  arrangements  for  comfort  and  or¬ 
der, —  first-,  second-,  and  third-class  rooms,  and  so  forth, 


9 


—  we  met  a  crowd  of  jinrikishas  with  their  runners,  or,  as 
my  friends  tell  me  to  call  them,  kuruma  and  kurumaya , 
every  man  clamoring  for  patronage  in  the  usual  way  of 
the  hackman. 

We  selected  as  a  leader  Chojiro,  who  speaks  English 

—  a  little ;  is  a  traveled  man,  having  gone  as  far  as  Con¬ 
stantinople  ;  wears  the  old-fashioned  queue,  flattened  for¬ 
ward  over  the  top  of  his  shaven  head  ;  and  whose  naked 
feet  were  to  run  through  the  day  over  newly-macadam¬ 
ized  roads,  for  which  a  horse  would  need  to  be  well  shod. 
A  little  way  from  us,  on  the  square,  stood  the  car  of  the 
tramway,  which  runs  as  far  as  Asakusa,  to  the  great 
popular  temples  of  protecting  divinities,  Kuwanon  and 
Jizo, —  and  Benten,  from  whose  shrine  flowed  one  day 
copper  coins  as  if  from  a  fountain, —  where  Buddhist 
sermons  are  preached  daily ;  which  are  full  of  innumer¬ 
able  images,  pictures,  and  ex-votos  ;  and  where  prayer- 
wheels,  duly  turned,  helped  the  worshiper  to  be  free 
from  annoying  sins,  or  to  obtain  his  desires. 

How  shall  I  describe  our  ride  through  the  enormous 
city  ?  We  were  going  far  across  it  to  call  on  Professor 

F- - ,  the  great  authority  on  Japanese  art,  and  to  be 

delighted  and  instructed  by  him  through  some  fragments 
of  his  collection. 

In  the  first  street  where  the  tramway  runs  there  are 
semi-European  facades  to  houses,  and  in  their  pilasters 
the  Ionic  capital  has  at  length  made  the  circle  of  the 
world.  Then  we  took  more  Oriental  and  narrower  streets, 
through  the  quarter  of  the  gci-sha,  the  dancers  and  sing¬ 
ers  who  go  out  perpetually  to  put  a  finishing  touch  on 
entertainments.  At  such  early  hours  they  are  of  course 
unseen.  Where  houses  seemed  more  closed  than  usual 
servants  were  attending  to  household  duties,  and  we  heard 
the  occasional  strum  of  a  guitar.  Then  great  streets 
again,  with  innumerable  low  houses,  the  usual  shops,  like 

IO 


AT  THE  WELL. 


open  sheds,  with  swinging  signs  carved,  painted,  and 
gilded,  or  with  draperies  of  black  cloth  marked  with 
white  characters.  Merchants  sat  on  their  mats  among 
the  crowded  goods,  girls  at  corners  drew  water  from  the 
wells ;  in  a  narrower  street  the  black  streak  of  a  file  of 
bulls  peacefully  dragging  merchandise  ;  where  the  crowd 
was  thickest  a  black-lacquered  palanquin,  all  closed,  in 
which  was  shut  some  obstinate  adherent  to  ancient  fash¬ 
ions.  Then  bridges  and  canals,  and  great  empty  spaces, 
long  white  walls  with  black  copings,  and  buildings  that 
continued  the  walls,  with  gratings  like  those  of  barracks. 
These  were  the  yashikis — inclosed  residences  of  princes 
who  were  formerly  obliged  to  spend  part  of  the  year  at  the 
seat  of  government  with  small  armies  of  retainers.  Then 
the  walls  of  the  castle,  great  sloping  ramparts  of  irregular 
blocks  of  masonry,  about  which  stand  strangely  twisted 
pine-trees,  while  the  great  moats  of  clouded  water  are 
almost  filled  with  the  big  leaves  of  the  lotus.  Now  and 
then  great  gates  of  gray  wood  and  enormous  doors.  On 
some  of  the  wide  avenues  we  met  cavalry  officers  in  Eu¬ 
ropean  costume,  correct  in  style,  most  of  the  younger 
with  straggling  mustaches,  long  and  thin,  whence  their 
nickname  of  “  horn-pouts,”  naturally  connected  with  that 
of  the  “  cats,”  devourers  of  fish,  as  the  gei-sha  are  called. 
Near  official  buildings  we  saw  a  great  deal  of  black  frock- 
coats,  and  trousers,  and  spectacles.  Everything  was  seen 
at  a  full  run,  our  runners  dragging  us  at  horse’s  pace. 
Still  it  was  long  before  we  reached  our  destination. 
Streets  succeeded  streets,  empty  or  full,  in  desolate  Ori- 
enal  wearisomeness.  At  length  we  stopped  at  a  little 
gate  in  a  plank  fence,  and  entered  a  vast  high  space,  form¬ 
erly  a  prince’s  park,  at  one  end  of  which  we  saw  trees 
and  hills,  and  we  came  to  the  Professor’s  house,  a  little 
European  structure.  My  mind  is  yet  too  confused  with 
many  impressions  to  tell  you  of  what  we  saw  that  after- 


noon  and  evening,  and  what  was  said ;  all  the  more  that 
the  few  beautiful  paintings  we  looked  at  out  of  the  great 
collection  lifted  me  away  from  to-day  into  an  indefinite 
great  past.  I  dislike  to  use  analogies,  but  before  these 
ancient  religious  paintings  of  Buddhist  divinities,  symboli¬ 
cal  of  the  elements  or  of  protective  powers,  whose  worn 
surfaces  contained  marvels  of  passionate  delicacy  and  care 
framed  in  noble  lines,  I  could  not  help  the  recall  of  what 
I  had  once  felt  at  the  first  sight  of  old  Italian  art. 

We  passed  from  this  sense  of  exalted  peace  to  plunge 
again  into  the  crowded  streets  at  night.  It  was  late ;  we 
had  many  miles  to  go  to  catch  the  last  train  ;  two  addi¬ 
tional  runners  had  been  engaged  for  each  kuruma  —  one 
to  push,  one  to  be  harnessed  in  front. 

Then  began  a  furious  ride.  Mine  was  the  last  carriage. 
We  were  whirled  along  with  warning  cries  of  “  Hai-hai !  ” 
now  into  the  dark,  then  into  some  opening  lighted  by  star¬ 
light,  in  which  I  could  see  the  flitting  shapes  of  the  other 
runners  and  of  my  companions.  I  remember  the  creak¬ 
ing  of  their  carriages,  the  jerking  of  them  with  each  pull 
of  the  men ;  then  our  crossing  suddenly  other  parties 
lighted  by  lanterns  like  ourselves,  the  lights  flaring  upon 
yellow  faces  and  dark  dresses  and  black  hair;  then  our 
turning  some  narrow  corner  and  plunging  at  full  speed 
into  lighted  streets  crowded  with  people,  through  whom 
we  seemed  to  cut  our  way.  Much  shouting  of  our  men, 
and  dodging  of  wayfarers  with  lanterns  and  of  bystanders 
who  merely  turn  enough  to  let  us  glide  by.  Then  one 
of  my  runners  at  full  gallop  struck  a  post  and  was  left 
behind  ;  another  was  gathered  in  somehow  without  a  stop, 
and  we  tore  through  the  city,  still  more  crowded  as  we 
came  nearer  to  our  end  —  the  railway  station.  We  were 
in  time,  and  we  slept  in  the  now  familiar  train.  We  reached 
the  deserted  station  and  were  jogged  peacefully  to  our 


14 


ANCIENT. 


hotel;  our  men,  in  Japanese  fashion,  sleepily  turning  out 
of  the  way  of  the  ownerless  dogs  that  lay  in  the  middle 
of  the  streets.  And  when  I  awoke  in  the  morning  I 
found  that  the  day’s  impressions  had  faded  in  sleep  to 
what  I  tell  you. 

July  6. 

I  have  been  asking  myself  whether  it  would  be  possible 
to  have  sensations  as  novel,  to  feel  as  perfectly  fresh,  things 
I  knew  almost  all  about  beforehand,  had  we  come  in  any 
other  way,  or  arrived  from  any  other  quarter.  As  it  is, 
all  this  Japan  is  sudden.  We  have  last  been  living  at 
home,  are  shut  up  in  a  ship,  as  if  boxed  in  with  our  own 
civilization,  and  then  suddenly,  with  no  transition,  we  are 
landed  in  another.  And  under  what  splendor  of  light,  in 
what  contrasting  atmosphere  !  It  is  as  if  the  sky,  in  its 
variations,  were  the  great  subject  of  the  drama  we  are 
looking  at,  or  at  least  its  great  chorus.  The  beauty  of 
the  light  and  of  the  air  is  what  I  should  like  to  describe, 
but  it  is  almost  like  trying  to  account  for  one’s  own  mood 

—  like  describing  the  key  in  which  one  plays.  And  yet 
I  have  not  begun  to  paint,  and  I  dread  the  moment  of 
beginning  to  work  again.  Rather  have  I  felt  like  yield¬ 
ing  entirely  to  the  spirit  in  which  I  came,  the  intention 
of  a  rest,  of  a  bath  for  the  brain  in  some  water  absolutely 

alien.  A— - and  I  had  undertaken  that  we  should  bring 

no  books,  read  no  books,  but  come  as  innocently  as  we 
could  ;  the  only  compromise  my  keeping  a  scientific 
Japanese  grammar,  which,  being  ancient  and  unpractical, 
might  be  allowed,  for  it  would  leave  me  as  unready  as  on 
the  day  I  left. 

The  Doctor  took  us  on  Sunday  afternoon  to  his  club 

—  whose  name  I  think  means  the  perfume  of  the  maple 

—  to  see  and  to  listen  to  some  Japanese  plays  which  are 
given  in  the  club  theater  built  for  the  purpose.  We  went 

2  ,7 


there  in  the  afternoon,  passing  by  the  Shiba  temples,  and 
our  kurumas  were  drawn  up  at  one  end  of  the  buildings. 
There  everything  was  Japanese,  though  I  hear  stories  of 
the  other  club  and  its  ultra-European  ways  —  brandies- 
and-sodas,  single  eyeglasses,  etc.  However  that  may  be, 
on  this  side  we  were  in  Japan  without  mistake.  We  sat 
on  the  steps  and  had  our  shoes  taken  off,  according  to  the 
Japanese  fashion,  so  as  not  to  injure  mats,  and  we  could 
hear  during  the  operation  long  wailings,  high  notes,  and 
the  piercing  sound  of  flutes  and  stringed  instruments ; 
the  curiously  sad  rhythm  mingled  with  a  background  of 
high,  distinct  declamation.  We  walked  in  with  careful 
attention  to  make  no  noise,  forgetting  that  in  our  stock¬ 
ing-feet  we  could  have  made  none  had  we  wished,  and 
we  found  the  Doctor’s  place  reserved  for  him  and  us,  and 
marked  with  his  name,  written  large.  Other  low  boxes, 
with  sides  no  higher  than  our  elbows  as  we  sat  on  the 
mats,  divided  the  sloping  floor  down  to  the  stage.  The 
stage  was  a  pretty  little  building  projecting  into  the  great 
hall  from  its  long  side.  It  had  its  own  roof,  and  connect¬ 
ed  with  a  long  gallery  or  bridge,  along  which  the  actors 
moved,  as  they  came  on  or  disappeared,  in  a  manner  new 
to  us,  but  which  gave  a  certain  natural  sequence  and 
made  a  beginning  and  an  end, —  a  dramatic  introduction 
and  conclusion, — -and  added  greatly  to  the  picture  when 
the  magnificent  dresses  of  stiff  brocade  dragged  slowly 
along  to  the  cadence  of  the  music.  The  boxes  were  mostly 
occupied,  and  by  a  distinguished-looking  audience ;  the 
No,  as  this  operatic  acting  is  called,  being  a  refined,  clas¬ 
sical  drama,  and  looked  upon  differently  from  the  more 
or  less  disreputable  theater.  Hence  the  large  proportion 
of  ladies,  to  whom  the  theater  is  forbidden.  Hence,  also, 
owing  to  its  antiquity-  and  the  character  of  its  style,  a 
difficulty  of  comprehension  for  the  general  public  that 
explained  the  repeated  rustle  of  the  books  of  the  opera 

18 


ii 

which  most  of  the  women  held,  whose  leaves  turned  over 
at  the  same  moment,  just  as  ours  used  to  do  at  home 
when  we  were  favored  by  French  tragedy. 

A  quiet,  sleepy  appreciation  hovered  over  the  scene  ; 
even  the  devotees  near  us,  many  of  them  older  people 
and  belonging  to  the  old  regime,  showing  their  approval 
or  disapproval  with  restrained  criticism.  I  could  see  with¬ 
out  turning  my  head  the  expression  of  the  face  of  my 
neighbor,  a  former  daimio,  a  man  of  position  ;  his  face  a 
Japanese  translation  of  the  universal  well-known  aristo¬ 
cratic  type  —  immovable,  fatigued,  with  the  drooping  un¬ 
der  lip.  Behind  him  sat  former  retainers,  I  suppose  — 
deferential,  insinuating  remarks  and  judgments,  to  which 
he  assented  with  inimitable  brevity.  Still,  I  thought  that 
I  could  distinguish,  when  he  showed  that  the  youthful 
amateurs — -for  most  of  the  actors  were  non-professional 
—  did  not  come  up  to  a  proper  standard,  that  his  memory 
went  back  to  a  long  experience  of  good  acting.  And  so 
catching  are  the  impressions  of  a  crowd  that  I  myself  after 
a  time  believed  that  I  recognized,  more  or  less  distinctly, 
the  tyro  and  the  master,  even  though  I  only  vaguely  un¬ 
derstood  what  it  was  all  about.  For  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  the  libretto  would  have  been  still  more  difficult  for 
me  than  the  pantomime  before  me  ;  and  very  often  it  was 
but  pantomime,  the  actor  making  gestures  to  the  accom¬ 
paniment  of  music,  or  of  the  declaration  of  the  choragus, 
who  told  the  poetic  story.  Occasionally  these  movements 
amounted  to  a  dance,  that  is  to  say,  to  rhythmic  move¬ 
ments —  hence  called  the  No  dance  —  to  which  emphasis 
was  given  by  rising  and  falling  on  either  foot,  and  bring¬ 
ing  down  the  sole  with  a  sudden  blow. 

There  were  many  short  plays,  mostly  based  on  legen¬ 
dary  subjects,  distinguished  by  gorgeous  dresses,  and  oc¬ 
casionally  some  comic  scenes  of  domestic  life.  The  mon¬ 
otony  of  impression  was  too  novel  to  me  to  become  wear- 


2* 


21 


isome,  and  I  sat  for  several  hours  through  this  succession 
of  separate  stories,  patient,  except  for  the  new  difficulty 
of  sitting  cross-legged  on  the  mats.  Moreover,  we  had 
tobacco  to  cheer  us.  On  our  arrival  the  noiseless  ser¬ 
vants  had  brought  to  us  the  inevitable  little  tray  contain¬ 
ing  the  fire-box  with  hot  charcoal  and  the  little  cylinder 
for  ashes,  and  tea  and  little  sugary  balls ;  and  then,  be¬ 
sides,  notwithstanding  the  high-toned  repose  of  the  audi¬ 
ence,  there  was  enough  to  watch.  There  were  the  en¬ 
voys  from  Loo  Choo,  seated  far  off  in  the  dim  light  of  the 
room,  dressed  in  ancient  costumes,  their  hair  skewered 
up  on  the  top  of  the  head  with  a  double  pin  —  grave  and 
dignified  personages ;  and  a  European  prince,  a  Napole¬ 
onic  pretender,  seated  alongside,  with  his  suite,  and  our¬ 
selves,  the  only  foreigners.  The  types  of  the  older  people 
were  full  of  interest,  as  one  felt  them  formed  under  other 
ideas  than  those  of  to-day.  And  though  there  were  no 
beauties,  there  were  much  refinement  and  sweetness  in 
the  faces  of  the  women,  set  off  by  the  simplicity  of  their 
dresses,  of  blacks,  and  browns,  and  grays,  and  dull  violets, 
in  exquisite  fabrics,  for  we  were  in  an  atmosphere  of  good 
breeding.  And  I  watched  one  of  the  young  ladies  in 
front  of  me,  the  elder  of  two  sisters,  as  she  attended  to 
every  little  want  of  her  father,  and  even  to  his  inconveni¬ 
ences.  And  now  it  was  time  to  leave,  though  the  per¬ 
formance  was  still  going  on,  for  we  wished  to  return  in 
the  early  evening.  Our  shoes  were  put  on  again  at  the 
steps,  our  umbrellas  handed  to  us  —  for  sun  and  rain  we 
must  always  have  one  —  and  we  passed  the  Shiba  temples 
and  took  the  train  back  for  Yokohama. 


July  12. 

We  are  doing  nothing  in  particular,  hesitating  very 
much  as  to  what  our  course  shall  be.  One  thing  is 
certain  —  the  breaking  out  of  the  cholera  will  affect  all 


22 


MODERN. 


our  plans.  Even  the  consequent  closing  of  the  theaters 
shows  us  how  many  things  will  be  cut  off  from  us.  We 
spend  much  time  in  such  idleness  as  bric-a-brac,  letting 
ourselves  go,  and  taking  things  as  they  come. 

The  Doctor’s  kindness  is  with  us  all  the  time.  One 
feels  the  citizen  of  the  world  that  he  is  when  he  touches 
little  details  of  manners  here,  now  as  familiar  to  him  as 
those  of  Europe. 

I  enjoy,  myself,  this  drifting,  though  A - -  is  not  so 

well  pleased,  and  I  try  to  feel  as  if  the  heat  and  the  nov¬ 
elty  of  impressions  justified  me  in  idleness.  Once  only  I 
was  tempted  to  duty,  however,  when  we  went  to  the  tem¬ 
ples  of  Shiba  and  Uyeno,  where  are  the  tombs  of  the 
shoguns,  rulers  of  Japan  of  the  Tokugawa  line.  They 
are  all  there  but  the  two  greatest,  Iyeyasu  and  Iyemitsu, 
who  lie  at  Nikko,  the  sacred  place,  a  hundred  miles  away. 
Here  in  Tokio  are  the  tombs  of  the  others,  and  the  tem¬ 
ples  about  them  splendid  with  lacquer  and  carving  and 
gold  and  bronze,  and  set  among  trees  and  gardens  on 
these  hills  of  the  Shiba  and  Uyeno. 

My  dreams  of  making  an  analysis  and  memoranda  of 
these  architectural  treasures  of  Japan  were  started,  as 
many  resolutions  of  work  are,  by  the  talk  of  my  compan¬ 
ion,  his  analysis  of  the  theme  of  their  architecture,  and 
my  feeling  a  sort  of  desire  to  rival  him  on  a  ground  for 
fair  competition.  But  I  do  not  think  that  I  could  grasp 
a  subject  in  such  a  clear  and  dispassionate  and  masterly 
way,  with  such  natural  reference  to  the  past  and  its  im¬ 
plied  comparisons,  for  A - ’s  historic  sense  amounts  to 

poetry,  and  his  deductions  and  remarks  always  set  my 
mind  sailing  into  new  channels. 

But  I  must  put  this  off — certainly  for  to-day  —  while 
we  discuss  whether  we  shall  make  our  visit  to  ancient 
Kamakura  and  the  great  bronze  statue  and  the  island  of 
Enoshima,  or  whether  to  put  it  off  until  our  return  from 


25 


Nikko,  and  our  seeing  the  other  shrines  of  the  shoguns 
there.  The  Doctor,  who  has  just  left  Nikko,  tells  us  of 
its  beauty  in  the  early  summer,  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  I 
feel  all  the  hotter  as  he  talks  of  the  cold  mountain  streams 
which  run  by  his  house  and  of  banks  of  azaleas  covering 
the  high  rocks.  And  then  the  Japanese  proverb  says, 
“  Who  has  not  seen  Nikko  cannot  say  beautiful.” 


26 


THE  LAKE  IN  UY&NO  PA! 


FROM  TOKIO  TO  NIKKO 


July  20,  1886. 

THE  cholera  was  upon  us,  and  we  decided  to  go  to 

Nikko  and  spend  a  month  there,  near  the  F - s’. 

The  Doctor,  who  was  anxious  to  get  back  to  its  coolness 
and  its  other  charms,  was  to  pilot  us  and  instruct  us  by 
the  way,  and  much  of  the  miscellaneous  information  that 
I  shall  give  you  has  come  more  or  less  from  him.  Late 
in  the  morning  we  rode  to  Tokio,  and  lunched  in  Uyeno 
Park,  looking  down  on  the  great  pond  and  the  little  tem¬ 
ple  which  stands  in  it,  and  which  you  know,  having  seen 
them  on  the  fans  and  colored  prints.  They  were  veiled 
in  the  haze  of  the  sunlight,  as  if  in  a  spring  or  winter 
mist,  and  through  this  fog  of  light  shone  the  multitu¬ 
dinous  little  sparkles  of  the  ribs  and  swellings  of  the 
lotus-pads  lapping  one  over  another,  and  reaching  to  far 
streaks  of  clearer  water.  A  denser  lightness  here  and 
there  marked  the  places  of  the  flowers,  and  a  faint  odor 
came  up  in  lazy  whiffs.  The  roof  of  the  temple  seemed 
to  be  supported  by  the  moisture  below.  Above  there 
was  no  cloud.  All  things  lay  alike  in  the  blaze,  envel¬ 
oped  in  a  white  glimmer  of  heat  and  wet,  and  between 
the  branches  of  the  trees  around  us  the  sky  was  veiled  in 
blue.  The  locusts  hissed  with  a  crackling  sound  like  that 
of  heated  wood.  The  ugly  bronze  Buddha  at  the  corner 
of  the  tea-house  shone  as  if  melting  in  the  sun.  Then 
came  the  moment  of  leaving  for  the  station,  where,  owing 
to  delays  of  trains,  we  waited  still  longer  in  the  heat.  In 
the  cleanly  waiting-room  we  looked  at  the  illustrations  in 


29 


the  Japanese  newspapers,  and  at  the  last  report  of  the 
weather  bureau,  printed  in  English  and  fastened  to  the 
wall ;  or  we  read  a  little  in  that  morning’s  edition  of  the 
excellent  Yokohama  English  paper;  all  these  comforts  of 
civilization  being  supplied  by  the  Road.  At  length  the 
noise  of  hundreds  of  wooden  clogs,  worn  by  men,  women, 
and  children,  clattered  upon  the  stones  outside  and  an¬ 
nounced  an  end  to  waiting.  The  tightly-closed  train  had 
been  baking  in  the  sun  all  day,  and  we  leaned  out  of  the 
doors  on  the  sides  and  gasped  for  breath. 

Our  train  skirted  the  great  hill  of  Uyeno,  and  its  dark 
shadow,  which  did  not  quite  reach  us.  Monuments  and 
gravestones,  gray  or  mossy,  blurred  here  and  there  the 
green  wall  of  trees.  The  Doctor  told  us  of  the  cooler 
spring-time,  when  the  cherry-trees  of  Uyeno  cover  the 
ground  with  a  snow  of  blossoms,  and  the  whole  world 
turns  out  to  enjoy  them,  as  we  do  the  first  snows  of 
winter. 

But  this  is  a  lame  comparison.  The  Japanese  sensitive¬ 
ness  to  the  beauties  of  the  outside  world  is  something 
much  more  delicate  and  complex  and  contemplative,  and 
at  the  same  time  more  natural,  than  ours  has  ever  been. 
Outside  of  Arcadia,  I  know  of  no  other  land  whose  people 
hang  verses  on  the  trees  in  honor  of  their  beauty;  where 
families  travel  far  before  the  dawn  to  see  the  first  light 
touch  the  new  buds.  Where  else  do  the  newspapers  an¬ 
nounce  the  spring  openings  of  the  blossoms  ?  Where 
else  would  be  possible  the  charming  absurdity  of  the  story 
that  W - was  telling  me  of  having  seen  in  cherry-blos¬ 

som  time  some  old  gentleman,  with  capacious  sake  gourd 
in  hand  and  big  roll  of  paper  in  his  girdle,  seat  himself 
below  the  blossom-showers,  and  look,  and  drink,  and 
write  verses,  all  by  himself,  with  no  gallery  to  help  him  ? 
If  there  is  convention  in  a  tradition  half  obligatory;  and 
if  we,  Western  lovers  of  the  tree,  do  not  quite  like  the 


3° 


Japanese  refinement  of  growing  the  cherry  merely  for  its 
flowers,  yet  how  deliciously  upside-down  from  us,  and 
how  charming  is  the  love  of  nature  at  the  foundation  of 
the  custom  ! 

From  the  rustling  of  leaves  and  reechoing  of  trees  we 
passed  into  the  open  country,  and  into  free  air  and  heat. 
In  the  blur  of  hot  air,  trembling  beneath  the  sun,  lay 
plantations  and  rice-fields ;  the  latter,  vast  sheets  of 
water  dotted  with  innumerable  spikes  of  green.  Little 
paths  raised  above  them  made  a  network  of  irregular 
geometry.  Occasionally  a  crane  spread  a  shining  wing 
and  sank  again.  In  the  outside  ditches  stood  up  the 
pink  heads  of  the  lotus  above  the  crowded  pads.  At 
long  intervals  small  groups  of  peasants,  men  and  women, 
dressed  in  blue  and  white,  knee-deep  in  the  water,  bent 
their  backs  at  the  task  of  weeding.  The  skirts  of  their 
dresses  were  caught  up  in  their  girdles,  and  their  arms 
were  freed  from  their  looped-back  sleeves. 

The  Doctor  spoke  to  us  of  the  supposed  unhealthiness 
of  rice-planting,  which  makes  life  in  the  rice- fields  short, 
in  a  country  where  life  is  not  long. 

We  are  told  that  the  manuring  of  the  rice-fields  taints 
all  the  waters  for  great  distances,  and  we  are  warned  not 
to  drink,  without  inquiring,  even  from  the  clearest  streams. 
Not  even  high  up  in  the  mountains  shall  we  be  safe ;  for 
there  may  be  flat  spaces  and  table-lands  of  culture  which 
drain  into  the  picturesque  wildness  below.  We  learn 
that  with  all  these  hardships  the  rice-growers  themselves 
cannot  always  afford  this  staple  food  of  the  country,  for 
cheaper  than  rice  are  millet,  and  buckwheat,  and  the 
plants  and  fungi  that  grow  without  culture. 

Contrasting  with  the  tillage  we  were  passing,  islands 
of  close  foliage  stood  up  in  the  dry  plain,  or  were  re¬ 
flected,  with  the  clouds  above,  in  the  mirror  of  the  wet 
rice-fields.  Occasionally  a  shrine  was  visible  within,  and 


31 


the  obligatory  Torii  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  grove,  or 
within  its  first  limits. 

Looking  through  a  Torii  one  is  sure  to  be  in  the  di¬ 
rection  of  something  sacred,  whether  it  be  temple  or 
shrine  or  holy  mountain.  Neither 
closeness  nor  distance  interferes  with 
this  ideal  intention,  and  the  sacred 
Fusi-yama  is  often  seen  a  hundred 
miles  away  in  the  sky,  framed  by 
these  lines,  built  for  the  purpose. 

This  assemblage  of  four  lines  of  stone 
or  wood  or  bronze  is  to  me  one  of  the  creations  of  art, 
like  the  obelisk  or  the  pyramid.  Most  impressive,  most 
original  of  symbolic  entrances,  whether  derived  from 
sacred  India  or  from  the  ancestral  innocence  of  Poly¬ 
nesia,  there  is  something  of  the  beginning  of  man,  some¬ 
thing  invented  while  he  lived  with  the  birds,  in  this  ele¬ 
mentary  porch,  whose  upper  line,  repeating  the  slope  of 
hill  and  wave,  first  embodied  the  curve  that  curls  all 
upper  edges  in  the  buildings  of  the  farther  East. 

And  if,  indeed,  the  Torii 1  be  nothing  but  the  first 
bird-perch,  then  I  can  imagine  the  father  of  all  peacocks 
spreading  his  gigantic  fan  across  its  bars;  or  I  may  pre¬ 
fer  to  suppose  it  the  rest  for  the  disk  of  the  sun-god, 
whose  lower  curve  is  repeated  by  the  Torii’s  upper  beam. 

Sometimes  there  were  traces  of  inclosure  about  these 
woods;  sometimes  they  had  no  edgings  but  their  own 
beautifully-modeled  contours.  Long  ages,  respectful 
care,  sometimes  fortunate  neglect,  have  made  of  these 
reserved  spaces  types  of  an  ideal  wildness,  for  these  are 
sacred  groves,  and  they  are  protected  by  the  divine  con¬ 
tained  within  them. 

This  preservation  of  a  recall  of  primeval  nature,  this 
1  The  usual  etymology  of  Torii  is  bird-perch;  from  Tori ,  a  bird. 

32 


exemption  of  the  soil  from  labor,  within  anxious  and 
careful  tillage,  is  a  note  of  Japan  constantly  recurring, 
and  a  source  of  perpetual  charm. 

Notwithstanding  the  men  and  women  working  in  the 
fields,  there  was  a  certain  desolateness  in  the  landscape, 

and  A - made  out  its  reason  more  easily  than  I,  and 

recalled  that  for  miles  and  miles  we  had  traveled  without 
seeing  any  of  the  four-footed  beasts  which  the  Western 
mind  always  associates  with  pastoral  life  and  labor. 

As  the  evening  came  on  we  crossed  a  large  river  and 
looked  down  from  the  height  of  the  new  bridges  upon 
the  discarded  ferry-boats,  and  upon  the  shape  of  a  more 
fantastic  one  that  was  never  meant  to  sail  —  a  pine-tree, 
shaped  and  trimmed,  which  spread  its  green  mast  and 
sails  in  a  garden  by  the  water.  Far  away  were  lines  of 
mountains  and  the  peaks  of  extinct  volcanoes. 

At  every  station  now  the  country  people  gathered  to 
stare  at  the  novelty  of  the  train  ;  we  saw  the  lighting  up 
of  the  farm-houses  as  we  passed ;  in  the  dooryards,  be¬ 
hind  high  hedges  reminding  me  of  Normandy,  bonfires 
were  being  made  to  keep  off  mosquitoes :  then  temples 
and  shrines  with  lights  before  them,  and  at  eight  o’clock 
on  a  festal  night  we  came  into  Utsunomiya. 

The  streets  were  full  of  people  carrying  lanterns ;  chil¬ 
dren  ran  about  together,  with  little  toy  shrines,  and  the 
whole  town  was  drowned  in  noise.  We  got  into  a  basha, 
a  sort  of  omnibus,  attached  to  two  wild  horses,  and  were 
hurled  through  the  crowded  streets,  much  as  if  carrying 
the  mails,  with  apparent  disregard  of  the  lives  and  limbs 
of  the  inhabitants. 

The  hotel,  where  we  were  expected  and  where  the  Doc¬ 
tor  had  represented  us  as  distinguished  visitors,  opened  its 
whole  front,  in  a  Japanese  way,  to  receive  us,  for  there  was 
no  outside  wall  to  the  lower  floor.  We  were  driven  quite 
into  the  house,  and  beheld  an  entire  household  drawn 


3 


33 


up  in  line  on  the  platform,  which  occupied  a  full  half  of 
this  lower  space.  The  Doctor  did  all  that  was  right,  while 
we  remained  in  amused  embarrassment  before  our  pros¬ 
trated  host  and  the  kneeling  attendants.  As  we  sat  help¬ 
less  on  the  steps  of  the  platform  our  shoes  were  taken  off, 
and  in  stockinged  feet  we  were  ushered  through  the  crowd 
and  the  lower  part  of  the  house,  through  the  preparations 
for  passing  travelers,  the  smell  and  heat  of  washing  and 
cookery,  and  an  inexpressibly  outrageous  odor,  even  for 
this  land  of  frightful  smells,  evidently  of  the  same  nature 
as  that  of  the  rice- fields. 

Notwithstanding  this  horror,  we  found,  on  clambering 
up  the  steep  little  staircase  of  dark,  slippery  wood,  better 
fitted  to  stockings  than  to  boots,  a  most  charming,  cleanly 
apartment  ready  for  us :  ready,  I  say,  but  its  three  big 
rooms,  which  took  all  one  side  of  the  court,  contained 
nothing  but  a  drawing  hanging  in  each  room  and  a  vase 
filled  with  flowers;  in  justice,  I  ought  to  add  a  European 
table  of  the  simplest  make,  and  three  European  chairs. 
Under  them  was  spread  a  piece  of  that  red  cloth  which 
seems  to  have  a  fascination  for  the  Japanese — perhaps 
as  being  European. 

Everything  was  of  the  cleanest  —  wall,  floor,  stairs, 
tables ;  everything  was  dusted,  wiped,  rubbed,  polished. 

It  was  too  hot  and  we  were  too  tired  to  go  out  and  see 
the  town,  noisy  with  the  excitement  of  a  festival.  The 
Doctor  directed  the  preparation  of  a  meal  on  a  Japanese 
basis  of  rice,  mingled  and  enlivened  with  the  contents  of 
various  cans  ;  and  meanwhile  I  went  down  another  little 
staircase  of  cleanly  white  wood,  at  the  farther  end  of  our 
apartment,  to  our  little  private  bath-room  below. 

This  was  about  six  feet  square,  and  its  furniture  con¬ 
sisted  of  a  deep  lacquer  tray  to  lay  clothes  in.  The  bath¬ 
tub  was  sunk  in  the  floor,  but  so  that  its  edge  rose  high 
above  the  level  of  the  room.  I  had  declined  the  “  honor- 


34 


able  hot  water,”  which  is  the  Japanese  necessity,  and  ob¬ 
tained  cold,  against  protest.  I  had  yet  to  learn  the  lux¬ 
ury  and  real  advantage  of  the  Japanese  hot  bath.  I  closed 
my  door,  but  my  window  was  open,  and  through  its  wooden 
bars  I  could  see  our  opposite  neighbors  across  the  garden 
of  the  courtyard— a  whole  family,  father,  mother,  chil¬ 
dren,  and  young  daughter  —  file  down  to  the  big  bath¬ 
room  at  the  corner,  whose  windows  were  open  to  mine.  I 
heard  them  romp  and  splash,  and  saw  heads  and  naked 
arms  shining  through  the  steam.  Meditating  upon  the 
differences  which  make  propriety  in  various  places,  I  joined 
my  friends  at  dinner  and  listened  to  what  the  Doctor  had 
to  say  upon  the  Japanese  indifference  to  nudity  ;  how  Jap¬ 
anese  morals  are  not  affected  by  the  simplicity  of  their 
costumes,  and  that,  of  course,  to  the  artist  it  seems  a  great 
pity  that  the  new  ideas  should  be  changing  these  habits 
in  a  race  so  naturally  law-abiding;  for  even  the  govern¬ 
ment  is  interfering,  and  enforcing  dress  within  city  limits. 
Then  came  the  question  whether  this  be  a  reminiscence 
of  Polynesian  ancestry  and  simplicity,  or  born  of  climate 
and  cleanliness.  And,  indeed,  all  Japan  spends  most  of 
its  time  washing,  so  that  the  very  runners  bathe  more 
times  a  day  than  our  fine  ladies.  Meanwhile  the  servant- 
girls  were  spreading  for  us  the  blue-green  mosquito  net¬ 
tings,  put  together  with  bands  of  orange  silk.  They  were 
slung  by  cords  from  the  corners  of  the  beams,  which  serve 
for  a  cornice,  and  they  made  a  good-sized  square  tent  in 
the  middle  of  the  room.  Inside,  our  beds  were  made  up 
on  the  floor,  of  well-wadded  coverlets  folded  one  upon 
another.  One  of  these  I  took  for  a  pillow.  I  have  not 
yet  dared  to  try  the  block  of  wood,  hollowed  out  for  the 
nape  of  the  neck,  which  serves  for  a  pillow  in  Japan,  not¬ 
withstanding  that  it  has  a  pad  to  relieve  its  severity  —  a 
pad  of  paper  fastened  on,  and  which  you  remove  sheet  by 
sheet  as  you  want  a  clean  pillow-slip.  I  can  understand, 

35 


however,  how  precious  it  must  be  in  a  country  where  the 
women  keep,  day  and  night,  undisturbed,  those  coiffures 
of  marvelous  black  hair,  glistening  with  camellia  oil,  the 


name  of  which  I  like  better  than  its  perfume.  From  in¬ 
side  my  netting  I  could  see,  as  I  was  lying, —  for  the 
screens,  which  made  our  windows,  remained  wide  open,— 

36 


through  the  topmost  branches  of  the  trees  of  the  garden, 
the  Japanese  family  opposite,  now  ending  their  evening 
meal. 

Laughter  and  chatter,  clattering  of  cups,  rap  of  pipes 
against  boxes,  a  young  man  came  in  and  bent  over  one 
of  the  women  seated  upon  the  floor;  the  girl  repeated 
some  prayer,  with  clapping  hands  outstretched;  the  lights 
were  put  out,  all  but  the  square  “ando,”  or  floor  night- 
lantern,  and  they  drew  their  screens.  I  fell  asleep,  to  be 
waked  with  a  start  by  the  watchman,  who,  every  hour, 
paced  through  the  garden,  striking  a  wooden  clapper, 
and  impertinently  assured  us  of  the  hour. 

This  weary  noise  marked  the  intervals  of  a  night  of 
illness,  made  worse  by  nightmares  of  the  cholera,  from 
which  we  were  flying.  The  earliest  dawn  was  made  hid¬ 
eous  by  the  unbarring  and  rolling  of  the  heavy  ainados / 
the  drawing  back  of  the  inside  screens  (s/iojis),  and  the 
clattering  of  clogs  over  pavement,  through  other  parts 
of  the  house.  Our  Japanese  family  across  the  way  I 
could  hear  at  their  ablutions,  and,  later,  tumultuously  de¬ 
parting  for  early  trains ;  and  at  last  I  slept  in  broad 
daylight. 

Late  in  the  morning  we  entered  our  friend  the  basha. 
In  the  daylight  I  noticed  that  the  horses  wore  something 
like  a  Dutch  collar,  and  were  harnessed  with  ropes.  Two 
men,  one  the  driver,  the  other  the  running  groom,  sat  on 
the  low  front  seat.  Our  trunks  and  bags  and  Japanese 
baskets  encumbered  the  omnibus  seats,  on  which  we 
stretched  our  sick  and  wearied  bodies,  for  the  Doctor 
himself  was  ill,  and  smiled  mechanically  when  I  tortured 
him  with  questions.  We  left  town  at  a  full  gallop,  and 

1  Rain-doors,  outer  wooden  screens,  which  close  the  house  at  night,  and 
roll  in  a  groove. 


3’ 


37 


at  risk  of  life  for  every  one  in  the  streets;  one  of  our 
drivers  meanwhile  blowing  wildly  through  a  horn,  to  the 
inspiriting  of  the  horses  and  the  frightening  of  the  Jap¬ 
anese  small-boy.  Soon  one  of  our  men  plunged  off  his 
seat  and  began  running  by  the  horses  in  the  old  Japanese 
way  —  hereditary  with  him,  for  they  follow  the  calling 
from  generation  to  generation.  Running  without  pause 
and  without  sweating,  he  threw  his  body  back  as  if  re¬ 
straining  his  pace  to  that  of  the  horses.  At  the  limits  of 
the  town,  in  full  run,  he  stripped  his  upper  garments  and 
showed  himself  tattooed  at  every  visible  point.  Above 
the  double  strip  of  his  breech-clout,  a  waterfall,  a  dragon, 
and  a  noble  hero  made  a  fine  network  of  blue  and  pink  on 
the  moving  muscles. 

Now  the  road  became  heavy,  wet,  and  full  of  deep 
ruts,  and  our  miserable  ponies  came  to  a  standstill  — 
and  balked.  The  Japanese  mildness  of  our  driver  disap¬ 
peared.  He  took  to  beating  their  poor  backs  with  a 
heavy  bamboo  cane,  while  we  remonstrated  feebly,  re¬ 
gretting  that  we  had  not  sufficient  strength  to  beat  him 
too.  Then  he  explained,  deferentially,  that  confusion 
seized  him  at  being  unable  to  keep  his  promise  of  deliv¬ 
ering  us  to  Imaichi  for  the  appointed  hour,  and  I  felt  as 
if  we  had  been  put  in  the  wrong.  Imagine  the  difference 
had  he  been  —  any  one  but  a  Japanese.  We  turned  aside 
from  the  main  way  into  a  little  dry  side-path,  which  led 
us  into  the  hills  and  moors.  As  we  got  among  them  we 
left  the  annoying  odors  of  the  rice-fields  and  smelled  for 
the  first  time  the  fragrance  of  wild  roses,  looking  like 
ours,  but  a  little  paler.  This  was  the  first  thing  which 
reminded  me  of  home  —  the  roses  that  the  Japanese  do 
not  seem  to  care  for,  do  not  seem  to  understand.  With 
them  the  rose  has  no  records,  no  associations,  as  with  us; 
for,  once  on  this  farther  side  of  the  garden  of  Iran,  the 
peony  and  the  chrysanthemum,  the  lotus  and  the  iris, 

38 


IN  THE  GREAT  AVENUE  OF  CRYPTOMERIA. 


the  peach,  the  cherry,  and  the  plum,  make  up  the  flower- 
poetry  of  the  extreme  East. 

Then,  leaving  the  dry  and  sunny  uplands,  we  entered  a 
famous  avenue,  shaded  for  twenty  miles  by  gigantic  cryp- 
tomeria  trees  60  to  120  feet  high.  They  were  planted, 
as  an  act  of  homage,  some  two  centuries  ago,  by  some 
mighty  noble,  when  it  was  decided  to  place  at  Nikko  the 
tomb  of  the  great  shogun  Iyeyasu.  They  rise  on  each 
side  of  the  sunken  road,  from  banks  and  mounds,  over 
which  steps  lead,  from  time  to  time,  to  plantations  and 
rice-fields  beyond,  and  to  shrines  peeping  out  among  the 
trees.  In  side-roads  above,  on  either  hand,  passed  occa¬ 
sionally  peasants  and  pack-horses  laden  with  forage,  or 
the  bright  shine  of  a  peasant  woman’s  red  skirt.  Where 
an  occasional  habitation,  or  two  or  three,  are  niched  in 
some  opening,  the  tall  columns  of  the  great  trees  are  in¬ 
terrupted  by  spaces  filled  with  crossed  branches  of  the 
wilder  pine ;  and  behind  these,  outside,  sometimes  the 
light-green  feathery  mass  of  a  bamboo  grove.  Against 
the  bank  stood  low,  thatched  buildings;  near  them  the 
great  trees  were  often  down,  or  sometimes  dying;  an 
occasional  haystack,  sliced  off  below  by  use,  was  fastened, 
in  thick  projection,  around  some  smaller  tree.  Once,  at 
a  turn  of  the  road,  near  a  building  with  wide  roof,  pushed 
against  the  corner  bank  out  of  a  basin  fringed  with  iris, 
sprang  into  the  air  a  little  jet  of  water.  Near  by,  a  soli¬ 
tary  ditcher  had  placed  in  a  bamboo  fence  some  bright 
red  blossom,  with  its  stem  and  leaves,  apparently  to 
cheer  him  at  his  work. 

The  heavy  road  was  being  ditched  on  each  side  to  carry 
off  the  soaking  waters,  and  our  weary,  miserable  horses 

broke  down  again.  A -  and  I  rested  by  going  in 

advance,  and  I  experienced  the  new  sensation  of  walk¬ 
ing  among  the  bamboo  stems,  like  an  insect  among  the 


41 


knotted  stalks  of  a  gigantic  grass.  The  still  heat  of  the 
sun  burned  in  great  smoky  streaks  across  our  way,  spotted 
by  the  flight  of  many  yellow  butterflies.  There  was  no 
sound  of  birds  in  the  high  spaces  above  ;  the  few  peasants 
that  we  met  slipped  past  on  their  straw  sandals,  their 
noiseless  horses  also  shod  with  straw ;  occasionally  a 
shiver  of  the  great  spruces  overhead,  and  far  behind  us 
the  cries  of  our  grooms  to  their  horses. 

It  was  two  o’clock  when  we  galloped  bravely,  as  if  with 
fresh  horses,  into  the  single  long  sti'eet  which  is  Imaichi 
village.  We  were  now  on  high  ground,  some  two  thou¬ 
sand  feet  above  our  point  of  departure,  and  could  feel, 
but  not  see  clearly,  in  the  blaze  of  sunlight,  great  moun¬ 
tains  lost  in  great  wet  clouds. 

We  stopped  at  the  village  inn;  drivers  and  runners 
were  sitting  on  the  stone  bench  in  front,  drinking  tea, 
when  we  drove  up.  We  sat  down  on  the  straw-matted 
porch  inside,  the  whole  front  of  the  building  open,  and 
drank  miserable,  herby  tea,  and  tasted  the  usual  sweet 
balls  of  sugary  stuff. 

Alongside  the  tea-house,  in  one  of  the  recesses  between 
the  buildings,  we  could  see  the  runners  of  kurumas  being 
washed  off  and  rubbed  down,  just  as  if  they  were  horses 
in  a  livery  stable.  As  they  stood  naked,  their  compan¬ 
ions  poured  pails  of  water  over  them,  its  brown  spread 
covering  the  stone  slabs.  Some  of  them,  in  the  porch, 
lay  on  their  backs,  others  prone,  others  on  the  side,  all 
near  a  kettle,  which  hung  over  a  charcoal  fire,  in  which, 
perhaps,  they  were  heating  sake.  One  on  his  back,  his 
neck  on  the  wooden  pillow,  was  smoking.  The  village 
itself  lay  in  hot,  clean  repose, —  not  dusty, —  the  rows  of 
buildings  on  each  side  of  the  street  irregular,  but  all  of 
the  same  appearance.  Most  of  the  fronts  were  open,  the 
goods  all  displayed  outside  of  the  walls,  or  on  the  floors, 

42 


innumerable  pieces  of  paper  hanging  about  everywhere. 
A  few  men  sat  about  on  the  porches,  their  naked  feet 
hanging  off,  their  sandals  on  the  ground  below  them,  the 
inevitable  umbrella  by  their  side.  Most  of  the  village 
was  asleep  in  nakedness.  The  color  of  flesh  glowed  in 
the  hot  shade ;  brown  and  sallow  in  the  men,  ruddy  on 
the  breasts  of  the  women  and  the  entirely  nude  bodies  of 
the  children. 

And  here,  now,  we  said  good-by  to  the  basha,  and 
got  into  the  two-wheeled  baby  wagon,  which  they  call  a 
kuruma.  One  man  ran  between  the  shafts,  and  another, 
in  front,  was  fastened  to  the  cross-bar  by  a  long  strip  of 
cloth  tied  about  him.  The  file  of  our  five  wagons  started 
off  at  a  rapid  trot — we  had  two  for  our  baggage  —  with 
the  Doctor  ahead,  his  white  helmet  dancing  before  us  in 
the  sun.  From  under  my  umbrella  I  tried  to  study  and 
occasionally  to  draw  the  motions  of  the  muscles  of  our 
runners,  for  most  of  them  were  naked,  except  for  the  com¬ 
plicated  strip  around  the  loins- — a  slight  development  of 
the  early  fig-leaf.  The  vague  recall  of  the  antique  that  is 
dear  to  artists  —  the  distinctly  rigid  muscles  of  the  legs 
and  thighs,  the  rippling  swellings  of  the  backs  —  revived 
the  excitement  of  professional  study  and  seemed  a  god¬ 
send  to  a  painter.  The  broad,  curved  hat,  lifted  by  a  pad 
over  the  head,  was  but  an  Eastern  variation,  not  so  far  re¬ 
moved  from  the  Greek  7C£xaoos  of  Athenian  riders.  Some 
heads  were  bare ;  that  is  to  say,  their  thick  black  thatch 
was  bound  with  a  long  handkerchief,  which  otherwise 
hung  on  the  shoulders  or  danced  around  their  necks.  Not 
all  were  naked.  The  youngest,  a  handsome  fellow,  had 
his  tunic  pulled  up  above  the  thighs,  and  the  slope  of 
his  drapery  and  his  wide  sleeves  gave  him  all  the  eleg¬ 
ance  of  a  medieval  page.  I  found  it  easier  now  to  strug¬ 
gle  against  heat  and  indolence,  and  to  make  my  studies 
as  our  runners  ran  along,  for  we  had  entered  again  the 

45 


avenue  of  the  great  cryptomeria.  We  had  passed  the  en¬ 
trance  of  another,  which  in  old  times  was  the  road  traveled 
by  the  Mikado’s  ambassador,  in  the  fifth  month,  when  he 
journeyed  across  the  island  to  carry  offerings  to  Iyeyasu, 
in  his  tomb  at  Nikko.  The  big  trees  grew  still  taller  in 
this  higher  air,  their  enormous  roots  spreading  along  the 
embankments  in  great  horizontal  lines  and  stages  of  but¬ 
tresses.  Prolonged  wafts  of  cool  air  blew  upon  us  from 
the  west,  to  which  we  were  hurrying.  Above  us  spread 
a  long  avenue  of  shade,  high  up  and  pale  in  the  blue. 
And  so  we  got  into  Nikko  as  the  sun  was  setting  with 
the  delicious  sensation  that  at  last  we  were  in  coolness 
and  in  shade. 

Right  before  us,  crossing  the  setting  sun,  was  the 
island  mountain  of  Nikko-san  ;  small  enough  to  be  taken 
in  by  the  eye,  as  it  stood  framed  by  greater  mountains, 
which  were  almost  lost  in  the  glittering  of  wet  sunlight. 
The  mountain  threw  its  shade  on  the  little  village ;  down 
its  one  long  street  we  rode  to  the  bridge  that  spans  the 
torrent,  which,  joining  another  stream,  gives  Nikko  the 
look  of  an  island.  Alongside  this  bridge,  at  a  distance  of 
two  hundred  feet,  crosses  the  red  lacquer  bridge,  over 
which  we  are  not  allowed  to  pass.  It  is  reserved  for  the 
family  Tokugawa,  the  former  shoguns  of  Japan,  whose 
ancestors  built  the  great  shrines  of  Nikko,  and  for  the 
Emperor  on  his  occasional  visits.  It  stands  supported 
on  a  gigantic  framework  of  stone,  imitating  wmod,  the 
uprights  being  pierced  to  allow  the  crosspieces  to  run 
through,  against  all  European  constructional  principles, 
but  with  a  beauty  which  is  Japanese,  and  a  fitness  proved 
by  time. 

These  great  posts  under'  the  bridge  lean  against  what 
seems  the  wall  of  the  mountain  ;  the  rock  foundation  being 
supplemented,  everywhere  that  a  break  occurs,  by  artifi- 

46 


THE  WATERFALL  IN  OUR  GARDEN, 


cial  work.  Here  and  there  cascades  fall  over  natural  and 
over  artificial  walls  and  glisten  far  up  through  the  trees 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  bridge.  As  we  rattled  over  it; 
we  looked  down  on  the  overflowing  long  wooden  trough, 
which  carried  the  pure  waters  of  the  mountain  to  the  vil¬ 
lage  that  we  had  passed,  and  upon  the  torrent  below,  whose 
limpid  clearness  was  made  blue  by  mist,  where  the  warmer 
air  was  chilled  by  a  coldness  drawn  from  far-up  moun¬ 
tains.  Before  us  steps  of  enormous  width  passed  under 
the  foliage  and  turned  above  in  many  directions,  and  there 
on  the  lowest  step,  her  dainty  feet  on  straw  sandals,  whose 
straps  divided  the  toes  of  the  close-fitting  Japanese  socks, 
with  bare  ankles,  stood  our  hostess,  in  latest  European 
dress,  most  graceful  contrast  to  our  own  consciousness  of 
being  jaded  and  dirty,  and  to  the  nakedness  of  our  run¬ 
ners.  Panting  with  the  last  run,  they  stood  at  rest,  and 
leaned  forward  against  the  cross-bar  of  the  shafts,  with 
muscles  still  trembling,  clear  streams  of  sweat  varnishing 
their  bronze  nakedness,  and  every  hair  plastered  with  wet 
on  forehead,  chest,  and  body.  Just  before  them  rustled 
the  unrumpled  starched  spread  of  the  skirts  of  the  fair 
American.  She  was  summering  at  Nikko,  and,  friendly 
with  the  Buddhist  clergy,  had  arranged  that  one  of  the 
priests  should  let  us  have  his  house,  and  kindly  walked 
with  us  to  it,  a  little  way  up  in  one  of  the  first  open  spaces 
of  the  mountain.  After  passing  the  great  outside  fringe 
of  trees  we  found  a  large  clear  opening,  broken  up  by 
walled  inclosures,  the  wall  sometimes  high  and  sometimes 
low,  and  edged  by  gutters  through  which  the  torrents  ran. 
These  were  the  former  residences  of  princes,  whom  eti¬ 
quette  obliged  to  worship  officially  at  Nikko.  A  quarter 
of  a  mile  up  we  came  to  our  own  garden, — with  an  enor¬ 
mous  wide  wall  or  embankment  of  stone,  some  twenty  feet 
deep, — which  also  had  been  a  prince’s,  and  now  belongs 
to  the  little  Buddhist  priest  who  is  our  landlord.  There 


4 


49 


are  two  houses  in  the  inclosure,  one  of  which  he  lets  to  us. 
Ours  is  brand-new  and  two  stories  high,  while  his  is  old 
and  low,  with  an  enormous  roof,  and  an  arbor  built  out 
from  the  eaves  and  connecting  with  his  little  garden. 
High  behind  his  house  rise  rocks  and  wall ;  and  on  top  of 
them  are  planted  willows,  pines,  maples,  and  the  paulow- 
nia,  whose  broad  leaves  are  part  of  the  imperial  crest.  A 
little  waterfall  tumbles  over  the  rocks  and  gives  us  water 
for  our  garden  and  for  our  bath.  In  our  house  we  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Kato,  who  is  to  wait  upon  us.  A  few 
minutes  later  we  were  welcomed  by  our  landlord,  dressed 
for  the  occasion.  He  conducted  us  to  our  rooms,  and,  leav¬ 
ing  for  a  moment,  returned  with  a  china  bowl  that  was 
covered  with  a  napkin,  and  contained  sweetmeats  which 
he  told  me  are  peculiar  to  Nikko. 

Seeing  that  we  were  helpless  with  the  language,  he 
bowed  low  and  left  us  to  our  bath  and  to  a  survey  of  our 
new  quarters.  We  were  tired,  sick,  miserable,  weary  trav¬ 
elers,  having  gone  through  a  shipwreck  of  heat  and  fa¬ 
tigue,  but  there  was  a  fascination  in  feeling  that  this  baby- 
house  was  ours,  that  it  was  typical,  that  on  entering  we 
left  our  shoes  out  on  our  own  threshold  and  were  walking 
on  the  soft  clean  mats,  stocking-toed  ;  that  in  a  few  min¬ 
utes  we  should  be  stretched  on  these  as  on  a  bed,  and 
that  Kato  would  pour  out  our  tea.  Our  lowest  story, 
which  has  a  veranda,  can  be  divided  so  as  to  make  a  ser¬ 
vant’s  room  and  a  hall  beyond.  In  an  L  behind  stretches 
out  a  wash-room  with  a  big  dresser  fixed  to  the  wall,  under 
which,  through  a  trough,  rolls  a  torrent  from  the  water¬ 
fall  ;  and,  farther  on,  is  the  little  square  bath-room  with 
one  side  all  open  to  the  floor,  when  the  wooden  screen  is 
drawn,  through  which  we  get  light  and  air,  and  through 
which  the  box  containing  burning  charcoal  is  brought  from 
the  priest’s  house  to  heat  our  bath.  We  have  a  little  stair¬ 
case —  just  the  width  of  our  trunk  — which  leads  sharply 

50 


up  to  the  veranda  above,  from  which  we  step  into  A— — =’s 
room  and  then  into  mine  ;  they  are  separated  by  movable 
screens,  so  that  we  can  be  about  as  private  as  if  the  divis¬ 
ion  were  a  chalk  line.  But  outside  we  have  a  wealth  of 
moving  wall :  first  the  paper  screens,  which,  when  we  wish, 
can  separate  us  from  the  veranda  ;  then,  lastly,  on  its  edge, 
the  amado,  or  wooden  sliding-doors,  which  are  lying  now 
in  their  corner  box,  but  which  later  will  be  pulled  out  and 
linked  together,  and  close  the  open  house  for  the  night. 

Then,  as  we  were  about  leaving,  we  solemnly  placed  a 
great  ornamental  revolver  before  the  little  god  of  Con¬ 
tentment  who  sits  upon  the  Tokonoma — that  mantelpiece 
which  is  at  the  level  of  my  eye  when  I  lie  on  the  floor, 
and  which  is  the  Japanese  ideal  seat  of  honor,  but  never 
occupied.  This  revolver  is  left  there  to  appease  a  Jap¬ 
anese  conventional  fear  of  robbers.  We  went  down  in 
the  twilight  to  our  friends,  and  had  a  very  European 
supper,  and  sat  on  their  veranda,  looking  through  the 
trees  toward  the  bridge,  in  a  moonlight  of  mother-of- 
pearl;  and  we  were  so  sleepy  that  I  can  only  suppose  we 
must  have  talked  of  home,  and  I  can  only  remember  our 
host  clapping  his  hands  for  lanterns,  and  Kato  leading 
us  back,  with  the  light  held  low,  and  the  noise  of  the 
torrents  running  under  the  little  stone  bridges  that  we 
passed,  and  our  taking  off  our  shoes  on  our  own  door¬ 
step,  and  the  thunder  of  the  amado  as  Kato  rolled  them 
out  for  the  night. 


Si 


THE  SHRINES  OF  IYEYASU  AND  IYEMITSU 
IN  THE  HOLY  MOUNTAIN  OF  NIKKO 


July  25. 


FROM  where  we  are  in  the  Holy  Mountain,  our  first 
visit  would  be  naturally  to  the  shrine  of  the  shogun 
Iyeyasu,  whose  extreme  walls  I  see  among  the  highest 
trees  whenever  I  look  from  our  balcony  over  our  little 
waterfall. 

Iyeyasu  died  in  1616,  having  fought,  he  said,  ninety 
battles  and  eighteen  times  escaped  death,  having  almost 
destroyed  Christianity,  and  leaving  his  family  established 
as  rulers  of  Japan.  In  obedience  to  his  dying  wishes,  his 
son  and  successor  removed  the  body  of  his  father  from 
its  resting-place  in  the  south  to  this  final  tomb  at  Nikko. 
Here,  in  1617,  with  complicated  and  mystic  ceremonial, 
he  was  buried  and  deified. 

If  you  have  no  work  on  Japan  near  by  to  refer  to,  sub 
voce  Iyeyasu,  I  can  tell  you,  briefly,  what  he  did  or  what  he 
was,  though  I,  too,  have  no  books  at  my  hand.  He  was 
a  great  man,  a  patient  waiter  upon  opportunity,  who  at 
the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century  came  upon  the  scene  of  a 
great  civil  war,  then  filled  by  two  protagonists,  the  mili¬ 
tary  ruler,  Nobunaga,  and  his  lieutenant,  Hideyoshi,  who 
was  to  be  known  later  as  Taiko  Sama.  Their  aim  was  to 
settle  something  more  definitely,  of  course  in  their  favor; 
and,  in  fact,  the  death  of  the  former  and  the  triumphant 
success  of  the  latter,  who  succeeded  him,  went  far  toward 
disposing  of  many  contending  claims,  and  toward  a  crys¬ 
tallizing  of  the  feudal  system,  which  had  grown  of  cen¬ 
turies  of  civil  war.  This  is  the  moment  that  we  see  re- 


52 


fleeted  in  the  annals  of  the  first  Christian  missionaries,  to 
whom  the  military  chiefs  of  Japan  were  alternately  kind 
or  cruel. 


PORTRAIT-STATUE  OF  IY&YASU  IN  CEREMONIAL  DRESS. 


When  Hideyoshi  died  he  had  grown  to  be  the  master 
of  Japan;  he  had  been  made  Regent  of  the  Empire,  as  a 
title  of  honor,  for  he  was  that  and  more  in  reality  ;  he 
had  become  one  of  the  greatest  of  Oriental  warriors,  and 
had  begun  life  as  a  groom,  the  son  of  a  humble  peasant. 
The  name  of  Taiko  (Great  Gate)  he  took  like  other  regents, 
on  retiring  nominally  from  office,  but  with  the  addition  of 
Sama  (Lord)  it  is  applied  to  him  alone  in  popular  mem¬ 
ory.  Naturally,  then,  he  believed  in  a  possible  dynasty 
originating  in  him.  At  his  death  he  could  see,  as  his 
greatest  fear  for  the  future  of  the  young  son  to  whom  he 
wished  to  leave  his  power,  this  man  lyeyasu  Tokugawa, 
lord  now  of  many  provinces,  but  who  had  begun  humbly, 
and  who  had  assisted  him  in  breaking  many  enemies, 
receiving  a  reward  with  every  success,  and  consolidating 
4*  S3 


meanwhile  his  own  smaller  powers.  The  dying  Taiko 
made  complicated  arrangements  to  secure  the  good-will 
of  Iyeyasu,  and  also  to  prevent  his  encroachments.  These 
arrangements,  including  and  combining  the  agencies  of 
numbers  of  princes  and  vassals,  many  of  them  newly 
Christianized,  seem  only  the  more  certainly  to  have  forced 
on  a  position  in  which  Iyeyasu,  with  few  allies,  but  with 
clear  aims  and  interests,  took  the  field  against  a  larger 
number  of  princes,  commanding  more  men,  but  not  united 
in  any  intention  as  fixed  as  his  was.  These  he  defeated 
for  once  and  all,  on  a  great  battlefield,  Sekigahara,  on 
some  day  in  October  in  the  year  1600.  It  was  the 
greatest  battle  that  Japan  ever  saw,  and  one  of  the 
bloodiest — remarkable  for  us  because  of  the  death  of 
three  of  the  Christian  leaders  against  Iyeyasu,  warriors 
distinguished  before  in  many  wars,  who  could  not,  being 
Christians,  take  their  own  lives  in  defeat,  as  their  Jap¬ 
anese  traditions  of  honor  commanded.  Hence  the  victor 
had  them  beheaded — a  shameful  death,  and  thereby 
heroic.  These  were  almost  his  only  immediate  victims. 
Iyeyasu  wisely  forgave,  when  it  paid,  and  merely  weak¬ 
ened  the  beaten,  increasing  the  possessions  but  not  the 
powers  of  his  adherents;  and  finally  remained  in  undis¬ 
puted  power,  with  great  titles  from  the  Mikado,  who, 
though  poor  in  power,  was  still  a  dispenser  of  honors,  for, 
as  with  the  greater  gods,  the  victrix  causa  pleased. 

Meanwhile  the  protection  of  the  son  of  the  great  Taiko 
Sama,  for  which  all  this  war  had  been  supposed  to  grow, 
had  not  been  effected,  and  even  this  one  obstacle  or  re¬ 
minder  was  to  disappear  from  before  Iyeyasu,  but  not  for 
several  years,  and  only  just  before  his  death. 

He  had,  in  Japanese  custom,  resigned  his  apparent 
power  to  his  son,  for  behind  him  he  could  act  more  ob¬ 
scurely  and  with  less  friction.  Then  began  the  drama  of 
the  extinction  of  Christianity ;  slowly,  for  many  reasons, 

54 


AVENUE  TO  TEMPLE  OF  IyGyASU 


not  the  least  being  that  several  Christian  princes,  with 
their  vassals,  had  supported  Iyeyasu  in  his  struggle.  And 
at  length  the  son  of  Taiko  Sama,  Hideyori,  indirectly  con¬ 
nected  with  the  Christian  side,  fell  before  Iyeyasu.  His 
strong  castle  at  Osaka  was  said  to  have  become  a  place  of 
refuge  for  the  persecuted  and  the  discontented,  even  to  the 
very  Christians  whom  his  father  had  cruelly  persecuted. 

Which  was  in  the  wrong  and  disturbed  the  waters,  the 
wolf  or  the  lamb,  I  do  not  know,  but  only  that  in  June, 
1615,  the  great  castle  was  attacked  by  Iyeyasu  and  his  son 
in  as  bloody  a  battle  as  was  ever  fought ;  and  notwith¬ 
standing  that  for  a  moment  victory  hung  in  the  balance, 
the  Tokugawa  Luck  prevailed,  the  castle  took  fire,  thou¬ 
sands  perished,  and  Hideyori  and  his  mother  disappeared. 

Whether  Iyeyasu  was  the  author  of  the  code  of  laws  or 
rules  at  which  he  is  supposed  to  have  worked  during  these 
years  of  waiting,  with  the  aid  of  learned  scholars,  to  be¬ 
queath  them  to  his  descendants  for  the  maintenance  of 
the  order  of  things  he  left,  I  do  not 
know ;  nor  perhaps  was  the  infor¬ 
mation  I  once  had  about  them  at 
all  accurate.  They,  or  their  spirit, 
however,  served  to  guide  the  na¬ 
tion  for  the  next  two  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ;  that  is  to  say,  until  the 
second  Commodore  Perry  came  to 
Japan,  with  the  increased  weight  of 
an  outside  world  much  changed. 

Meanwhile  the  great  man  died, 
leaving  a  great  personal  fame  be¬ 
hind  him,  over  and  above  the  pow¬ 
ers  he  could  transmit.  He  was 
buried  here,  as  I  said.  The  place  was  chosen  in  1616; 
at  the  end  of  the  same  year  the  buildings  were  begun,  and 
in  the  beginning  of  the  next  year  were  partly  completed. 

57 


TOKUGAWA. 


When  the  funeral  procession  arrived,  in  nineteen  days 
from  Iyeyasu’s  former  resting-place,  amid  great  ceremo¬ 
nies  and  religious  rites,  the  title  of  “  Supreme  Highness, 
Lord  of  the  East,  Great  Incarnation,”  was  given  to  the 
hero  and  ruler  and  son  of  the  small  laird  of  Matsudaira. 

While  he  was  being  thus  deified  the  persecution  of  the 
Christians  increased  in  violence,  passing  into  a  hideous 
delirium  of  cruelty ;  wiping  out  its  victims,  but  unable  to 
affect  their  courage.  There  can  be  apparently  no  ex- 
aggeration  of  the  sufferings  of  the  martyrs  nor  of  the 
strength  of  mind  shown  by  them  —  a  courage  and  con¬ 
stancy  ennobling  to  Japan. 

Hidetada,  the  son  of  Iyeyasu,  is  buried  at  Yeddo  (To- 
kio) ;  but  Iyemitsu,  the  grandson,  has  a  temple  and  a 
tomb  here  in  the  forest,  alongside  of  his  grandfather’s. 

He  succeeded  to  power  in  1623,  and  lived  and  ruled 
some  thirty  years  more  with  an  energy  worthy  of  Iyeyasu, 
and  carried  the  system  to  completion.  The  laws  known 
as  the  laws  of  Iyeyasu  are  sometimes  made  out  to  be  his. 
These  laws,  based  on  the  old  feudal  habits,  and  influenced 
and  directed  by  the  great  Chinese  doctrines  of  relation¬ 
ship  and  duties,  are  not  laws  as  we  think  of  law,  nor  were 
they  to  be  published.  They  were  to  be  kept  secret  for 
the  use  of  the  Tokugawa  house  ;  to  serve  as  rules  for  con¬ 
duct  in  using  their  power,  so  as  to  secure  justice,  which  is 
in  return  to  secure  power,  that  exists  for  its  own  end  in 
the  mind  of  rulers.  These  laws,  some  of  which  are  reflec¬ 
tions,  or  moral  maxims,  or  references  to  the  great  man’s 
experience,  made  out  a  sort  of  criminal  code, —  the  re¬ 
lations  of  the  classes, —  matters  of  rank  and  etiquette, 
and  a  mechanism  of  government.  They  asserted  the 
supremacy,  and  at  the  same  time  destroyed  the  power,  of 
the  Mikado,  and  by  strict  rules  of  succession,  residence, 
and  continued  possession  bound  up  the  feudal  nobles. 
They  reasserted  the  great  individual  virtues  of  filial 

58 


piety  and  of  feudal  loyalty,  and  insisted  on  the  traditions 
of  military  honor.  “  The  sword  ”  was  to  be  “  the  soul 
of  the  Samurai,”  1  and  with  it  these  have  carried  the  na¬ 
tional  honor  and  intelligence  in  its  peculiar  expressions. 

Full  recognition  was  given  to  the  teaching,  “Thou 
shalt  not  lie  beneath  the  same  sky,  nor  tread  on  the  same 
earth,  with  the  murderer  of  thy  lord.”  The  rights  of  the 
avenger  of  blood  were  admitted,  even  though  he  should 
pay  the  penalty  of  his  life. 

Suicide,  which  had  long  been  a  Japanese  development 
of  chivalrous  feeling  and  military  honor,  was  still  to  be 
regarded  as  purifying  of  all  stain,  and,  for  the  first  time, 
allowed  in  mitigation  of  the  death  penalty. 

Indeed,  half  a  century  later,  the  forty-seven  Ronin 
(“wave-people”  —  Samurai  who  had  lost  their  natural 
lord  and  their  rights)  were  to  die  in  glorious  suicide, 
carrying  out  the  feudal  idea  of  fidelity. 

You  know  the  story  probably;  at  any  rate,  you  will 
find  it  in  Mitford’s  tales  of  old  Japan.  It  is  a  beautiful 
story,  full  of  noble  details,  telling  how,  by  the  mean  con¬ 
trivance  of  a  certain  lord,  the  Prince  of  Ako  was  put  in 
the  wrong,  and  his  condemnation  to  death  and  confisca¬ 
tion  obtained.  And  how,  then,  forty-seven  gentlemen, 
faithful  vassals  of  the  dead  lord,  swore  to  avenge  the 
honor  of  their  master,  and  for  that  purpose  to  put  aside 
all  that  might  stand  in  the  way.  For  this  end  they  put 
aside  all  else  they  cared  for,  even  wife  and  children,  and 
through  every  obstacle  pursued  their  plan  up  to  the  fav¬ 
orable  moment  when  they  surprised,  on  a  winter  night, 
in  his  palace,  among  his  guards,  the  object  of  their  ven¬ 
geance,  whose  suspicions  had  been  allayed  by  long  delay. 
And  how  his  decapitated  head  was  placed  by  them  up¬ 
on  his  victim’s  tomb,  before  the  forty-seven  surrendered 

1  The  Samurai,  the  entire  warrior  class  of  the  feudal  days  ;  therefore,  also, 
the  gentry. 


59 


themselves  to  justice,  and  were  allowed  to  commit  suicide 
by  hara-kiri,  and  how  they  have  since  lived  forever  in 
memory  of  Japan. 

These  laws,  then,  destroyed  nothing;  they  reasserted 
certain  Japanese  traditions  and  customs,  but  made  out, 
through  many  details,  the  relations  of  dependence  of  all 
classes  of  society  upon  the  shogun,  as  vassal  indeed  of 
the  Mikado,  but  supreme  ruler  who  held  the  key  of  all. 
All  this  did  Iyemitsu  carry  out,  as  well  as  the  consequent 
seclusion  of  the  country;  the  only  manner  of  avoiding 
ideals  which  might  clash  with  those  upon  which  this  con¬ 
solidation  of  the  past  was  based.  And  to  many  of  these 
ideals,  to  the  idea  of  the  sacredness  of  the  family,  to  the 
idea  of  subjection  to  the  law  of  the  ruler,  Christianity,  by 
its  ideal  of  marriage,  by  its  distinctions  of  the  duty  to 
Caesar, —  to  name  only  a  few  reasons, —  might  be  found 
an  insidious  dissolvent.  Therefore,  if  it  be  necessary  to 
find  a  high  motive,  Iyemitsu  did  what  he  could  to  trample 
out  the  remains  of  Christianity,  which  were  to  expire,  a 
few  years  after  his  death,  in  a  final  holocaust  as  terrible 
and  glorious  as  Nero  himself  could  have  wished  to  see. 

From  that  time,  for  two  centuries,  all  went  on  the 
same,  until  the  arrival  of  the  foreigners  found  a  system 
so  complete,  so  interlocked  and  rigid,  as  to  go  to  pieces 
with  the  breaking  of  a  few  links. 

That  break  was  supplied  by  the  necessity  of  yielding 
to  the  Christian  and  foreign  demand  of  entrance,  and  in 
so  far  abandoning  the  old  ways. 

With  this  proof  of  weakness  the  enemies  of  the  Toku- 
gawa  and  those  of  the  system  began  to  assert  themselves, 
circumstances  aiding,  and  in  1868  the  last  of  the  race 
resigned  all  powers  and  retired  to  private  life. 

The  details  of  the  enormous  changes,  as  they  followed 
one  another,  are  too  many  and  sudden,  and  apparently 
too  contradictory,  for  me  to  explain  further.  Even  now 

60 


I  repeat  this  deficient  summary  of  the  Tokugawa  story 
only  because  of  wishing  to  recall  who  they  were  that  have 
temples  and  tombs  about  us,  and  to  recall,  also,  that  such 
has  been  the  end  of  the  beginning  which  is  buried  here. 

The  approach  to  the  temple,  to  which  most  paths  lead, 
is  through  a  great  broad  avenue,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
long,  bordered  by  high  stone  walls,  above  which  rise  high 
banks  and  higher  trees.  Between  these  dark  green  walls, 
all  in  their  own  shade, — in  the  center  of  the  enormous 
path  and  in  the  full  light  of  the  sky, — a  brilliant  torrent 
rushes  down  in  a  groove  of  granite,  hidden  occasionally 
under  the  road.  Here  and  there  drop  out  from  the  walls 
noisy  columns  of  clearest  water. 

In  the  distance  beyond,  through  a  mass  of  closer  shade, 
made  by  two  rows  of  dark  cryptomeria,  that  are  planted 
on  banks  faced  with  stones,- — for  here  the  road  divides 
into  three  different  grades  of  ascent  by  enormous  steps, — 
shine  the  high  white  walls  of  the  temple  grounds,  edged 
with  a  red-lacquered  fence  and  a  black  roofed  gate  of  red 
and  gold.  In  the  open  space  before  it,  with  wide  roads 
diverging  through  high  walls,  crowned  with  scarlet  fences, 
stands  a  granite  Torii,  some  thirty  feet  high,  whose  trans¬ 
verse  stones  are  crossed  by  a  great  black  tablet,  marked 
with  the  gilded  divine  name  of  Iyeyasu.  On  one  side  a 
five-storied  pagoda,  graceful  and  tall,  certainly  one  hun¬ 
dred  feet  high,  blood-red  and  gold  in  the  sunlight,  and 
green,  white,  and  gold  in  the  shadows  of  its  five  rows  of 
eaves,  rises  free  from  the  trees  around  it  and  sends  a  tall 
spear,  encircled  with  nine  gilded  rings,  into  the  unbroken 
sky.  Bindings  and  edges  of  copper,  bright  green  with 
weathering,  sparkle  on  its  black  roofs,  and  from  their 
twenty  corners  hang  bells  of  bright  green  copper.  Above 
the  steep  steps,  against  the  white  wall,  we  pass  through 
the  first  gate.  It  is  recessed,  and  two  gigantic  columns 

63 


of  trees  stand  in  the  corners.  Two  monsters  of  uncertain 
lion-form  occupy  the  niches  on  each  side.  From  the 
upper  side  of  the  red  pillars,  as  supports  for  the  engaged 
lintel,  stretch  out  the  gilded  heads  of  tapirs, — protectors 
against  pestilence, —  of  lions  and  elephants,  and  great 
bunches  of  the  petals  of  the  peony.  Above,  the  archi¬ 
trave  and  frieze  are  painted  flat  with  many  colors  and 
with  gold,  and  the  ends  of  the  many  beams  which  sup¬ 
port  the  roofing  are  gilded.  Everywhere,  even  to  the 
ends  of  the  bronze  tiles  of  the  black  roof,  the  crest  of  Iye- 
yasu’s  family,  the  Tokugawa,  is  stamped  in  gilded  metal. 

At  the  inside  corner  of  the  gate  stands  a  gigantic  cedar, 
said  to  have  grown  to  this  height  since  the  time  when 
Iyeyasu  carried  it  about  with  him  in  his  palanquin.  Op¬ 
posite  to  three  red  buildings,  which  are  storehouses  for 
the  memorial  treasures  of  the  temple,  stands,  closer  to  the 
wall,  a  charming  building,  mostly  gray, —  partly  owing  to 
the  wearing  of  the  black  lacquer  with  time, —  and  deco¬ 
rated  with  carved  panels,  which  make  a  frieze  or  string¬ 
course  all  around  its  sides.  Above  this  line  of  green,  red, 
blue,  white,  and  gold,  a  large  space  of  gray  wood,  spotted 
with  gilt  metal  where  the  framework  of  the  outer  beams 
is  joined,  spreads  up  to  the  pediment  under  the  eaves, 
which  is  all  carved  and  painted  on  a  ground  of  green. 
The  heavy  roof  above  is  of  black  bronze  and  gilded  metal 
and  is  spotted  with  the  golden  Tokugawa  crest.  Below 
the  colored  band,  midway,  the  black  wall  has  gratings 
with  golden  hinges,  for  this  delicate  splendor  is  given  to 
a  stable — the  stable  of  the  sacred  horse  of  the  god  Iye¬ 
yasu.  The  patient  little  cream-colored  pony  has  no  look 
of  carrying  such  honors;  and  I  can  scarcely  imagine  his 
little  form  galloping  out  in  the  silence  of  the  night  under 
the  terrible  rider. 

A  gentle  splashing  of  water,  which  mingles  with  the 
rustling  of  the  trees  and  the  quiet  echoes  of  the  pavement, 

64 


5 


comes  from  the  end  of  the  court  where  its  edge  is  a  de¬ 
scent  filled  with  high  forest  trees.  This  lapping  sound 
comes  from  the  temple  font,  a  great  wet  mass  of  stone, 
looking  like  solid  water.  It  has  been  so  exactly  balanced 
on  its  base  that  the  clear  mountain  stream  overflows  its 
sides  and  top  in  a  perfectly  fitting  liquid  sheet.  This  sa¬ 
cred  well-basin  has  a  canopy  with  great  black  bronze- 
and-gold  roof,  supported  by  white  stone  pillars,  three  on 
each  corner,  that  are  set  in  bronze  sockets  and  strapped 
with  gilded  metal.  The  pediment  and  the  brackets  which 
cap  the  pillars  are  brilliantly  painted,  and  the  recessed 
space  below  the  curved  roof-beam  is  filled  with  palm-like 
curves  of  carved  waves  and  winged  dragons.  Next  to 
this,  and  at  right  angles  to  it,  is  a  heavy  bronze  Torii, 
through  which  we  go  up  to  another  court,  turning  away 
from  the  buildings  we  have  seen.  On  the  dark  surface  of 
the  Torii  glisten  the  golden  Tokugawa  crests  ;  on  the  great 
tie-beam,  the  upper  pillars,  and  the  central  upright.  Near 
us,  the  eaves  of  its  lower  roof  continuing  the  lines  of  the 
water-tank  pavilion,  is  the  closed  library,  red,  delicately 
adorned  with  color  under  the  eaves,  and  with  the  same 
heavy  black  roofing  of  bronze  dotted  with  gold  which 
all  the  buildings  have  in  a  heavy  monotony.  The  steps 
lead  us  to  another  court,  spotted  with  different  buildings, 
among  tremendous  trees  —  a  bronze  pavilion  with  a  hang¬ 
ing  bell,  a  bell  tower,  and  a  drum  tower,  closed  in  with 
sloping  walls  of  red  lacquer,  and  a  large  lantern  of  bronze 
under  a  bronze  pavilion,  whose  curious,  European,  semi- 
Gothic  details  contrast  suddenly  with  all  this  alien  art,  and 
prove  its  origin  a  tribute  from  trading  Christian  Holland 
to  the  mortal  deity  worshiped  here.  On  one  side,  where 
the  forest  slopes  down  in  sun  and  shadow,  stands  a  Budd¬ 
hist  temple,  sole  survivor  of  the  faith  in  this  place,  now 
turned  over  to  the  official  and  native  worship.  The  lat¬ 
ticed  gold-and-black  screens  were  all  closed,  except  in  the 

67 


YOUNG  PRIEST. 


center,  through  which  we  could  see  the  haze  and  occa¬ 
sional  glitter  of  the  gold  of  gods  and  altar  ornaments,  and 
the  paleness  of  the  mats.  On  its  red  veranda  stood  a  young 
Buddhist  priest,  whom  our  companions  knew ;  a  slight, 
elegant  figure,  a  type  of  modesty  and  refinement.  Far- 

68 


ther  back,  on  the  other  side  of  the  veranda,  an  older  com¬ 
panion  looked  down  the  valley  at  some  girls  whose  voices 
we  could  hear  among  the  trees. 

The  main  entrance  rises  above  the  high  steps  to  a  little 
esplanade  with  heavy  railing,  on  the  level  of  a  higher  em¬ 
bankment.  The  court  that  we  were  in  was  full  of  broken 
shadows  from  its  own  tall  trees,  and  from  all  this  accumu¬ 
lation  of  buildings,  red-lacquered  and  gilded,  black-and- 
bronze  roofed,  spotted  and  stained  with  moss  and  lichens, 
or  glittering  here  and  there  in  their  many  metals.  Long 
lines  of  light  trickled  down  the  gray  trunks  and  made 
a  light  gray  haze  over  all  these  miscellaneous  treasures. 
Great  lanterns  (toro)  of  stone,  capped  with  green  and  yel¬ 
low  moss,  metal  ones  of  bronze  and  iron,  stand  in  files  to¬ 
gether  here  and  in  the  lower  court,  or  are  disposed  in  rows 
along  the  great  stone  wall,  which  is  streaked  by  the  weather 
and  spotted  with  white  and  purple  lichens.  Along  its 
upper  edge  runs  the  red-lacquered  wall,  heavily  roofed, 
of  the  cloister  which  surrounds  the  farther  court  above. 
Its  face  is  paneled  between  the  metal-fastened  beams  and 
posts  with  two  rows  of  deep  carvings  of  innumerable  birds 
and  trees  and  waves  and  clouds  and  flowers.  All  these 
are  painted  and  gilded,  as  are  the  frieze  above  and  the 
intervals  between  the  gilded  rafters. 

On  all  this  space,  and  on  the  great  white  gate,  the 
“  Gate  Magnificent,”  the  full  sun  embroidered  the  red  and 
white  and  colored  surfaces  with  millions  of  stitches  of 
light  and  shadow. 

The  gate,  or  triumphal  arch,  is  a  two-storied  building 
with  heavy  bronze-tiled  roof,  capped  and  edged,  like  all 
the  rest,  with  gilded  metal,  and  spotted  with  the  gilded 
crest  of  the  Tokugawa.  Its  front  toward  us  rises  in  the 
well-known  curve,  shadowing  a  pediment,  full  of  painted 
sculpture.  Eight  white  pillars  embroidered  with  delicate 
reliefs  support  the  white  lintel,  which  is  embossed  with 
5*  69 


great  divine  monsters  and  strapped  with  gilded  metal.  In 
the  niches  on  each  side  are  seated  two  repellant  painted 
images,  inside  of  white  walls,  which  are  trellises  of  deeply- 
carved  floral  ornament.  These  figures  are  warriors  on 
guard,  in  ancient  and  Japanese  costume,  armed  with  bows 
and  quivers  of  arrows,  whose  white,  wrinkled,  and  crafty 
faces  look  no  welcome  to  the  intruder,  and  recall  the  cruel, 
doubtful  look  of  the  guardian  statues  of  foxes  that  protect 
the  entrances  of  the  primitive  shrines  of  the  land-god  Inari. 
The  far-projecting  white  capitals  are  the  half-bodies  of 
lion-like  monsters  with  open  mouths  and  stretched-out 
paws.  Above  these,  below  the  carved  balcony  which 
marks  the  second  story,  the  cornice  is  made  of  a  wilder¬ 
ness  of  tenfold  brackets,  black  lacquered  and  patterned 
with  gold,  and  from  each  of  the  ten  highest  ones  a  gilded 
lion’s  head  frowns  with  narrowed  eyes. 

The  balcony  is  one  long  set  of  panels  —  of  little  panels 
carved  and  painted  on  its  white  line  with  children  playing 
among  flowers.  Above,  again,  as  many  white  pillars  as 
below  ;  along  their  sides  a  wild  fringe  of  ramping  dragons 
and  the  pointed  leaves  of  the  bamboo.  This  time  the  pil¬ 
lars  are  crowned  with  the  fabulous  dragon-horse,  with 
gilded  hoofs  dropping  into  air,  and  lengthy  processes  of 
horns  receding  far  back  into  the  upper  bracketings  of 
the  roof.  Upon  the  center  of  the  white-and-gold  lintel, 
so  delicately  carved  with  waves  as  to  seem  smooth  in  this 
delirium  of  sculpture,  is  stretched  between  two  of  the  mon¬ 
ster  capitals  a  great  white  dragon  with  gilded  claws  and 
gigantic  protruding  head.  But  all  these  beasts  are  tame 
if  compared  with  the  wild  army  of  dragons  that  cover  and 
people  the  innumerable  brackets  which  make  the  cornice 
and  support  the  complicated  rafters  under  the  roof.  Tier 
upon  tier  hang  farther  and  farther  out,  like  some  great 
mass  of  vampires  about  to  fall.  They  are  gilded  ;  their 
jaws  are  lacquered  red  far  down  into  their  throats,  against 

70 


DETAILS  OF  BASES  OF  CLOISTER  WALLS,  INNER  COURT. 


which  their  white  teeth  glitter.  Far  into  the  shade  spreads 
a  nightmare  of  frowning  eyebrows,  and  pointed  fangs  and 
outstretched  claws  extended  toward  the  intruder.  It  would 
be  terrible  did  not  one  feel  the  coldness  of  the  unbelieving 
imagination  which  perhaps  merely  copied  these  duplicates 
of  earlier  terrors. 

So  it  is,  at  least,  in  this  bright,  reasonable  morning 
light;  but  I  can  fancy  that  late  in  autumn  evenings,  or 
in  winter  moonlight,  or  lighted  by  dubious  torches,  one 
might  believe  in  the  threats  of  these  blinking  eyes  and 
grinning  jaws,  and  fear  that  the  golden  terrors  might 
cease  clinging  to  the  golden  beams.  It  is  steadying  to 
the  eye  to  meet  at  last  the  plain  gold-and-black  checker 
pattern  of  the  ends  of  the  final  rafters  below  the  roof,  and 
to  see  against  the  sky  peaceful  bells  like  inverted  tulips, 
with  gilded  clappers  for  pistils,  hanging  from  the  corners 
of  the  great  bronze  roof. 

And  as  we  pass  through  the  gate  we  are  made  to  see 
how  ill  omen  was  turned  from  the  Luck  of  the  Tokugawa 
by  an  “evil-averting  pillar,”  which  has  its  pattern  carved 
upside  down  as  a  sacrifice  of  otherwise  finished  per¬ 
fection. 

I  noticed  also  that  a  childish  realism  has  furnished  the 
lower  monsters  of  the  gate  with  real  bristles  for  their 
distended  nostrils ;  and  this  trifle  recalls  again  the  taint 
of  the  unbelieving  imagination,  which  insists  upon  small 
points  of  truth  as  a  sort  of  legal  protection  for  its  failing 
in  the  greater  ones. 

Within  this  third  cloistered  court  which  we  now  en¬ 
tered  is  an  inclosed  terrace,  some  fifty  yards  square.  In¬ 
side  of  its  walls  are  the  oratory  and  the  final  shrine,  to 
which  we  can  pass  through  another  smaller  gate,  this  time 
with  lower  steps.  The  base  of  the  terrace,  which  makes 
the  level  of  the  innermost  court,  is  cased  with  large  blocks 
of  cemented  stone.  Above  it  is  a  fence  or  wall  with 


73 


heavy  roof  and  projecting  gilded  rafters.  Great  black 
brackets  support  the  roof.  Between  them  all  is  carved 
and  colored  in  birds  and  flowers  and  leaves,  almost  real 
in  the  shadow.  Between  the  decorated  string-courses 
the  wall  is  pierced  with  gilded  screens,  through  which 
play  the  lights  and  darks,  the  colors  and  the  gilding  of 
the  shrine  inside.  At  the  very  bottom,  touching  the 
stone  plinth,  carved  and  painted  sculptures  in  high  relief 
project  and  cast  the  shadows  of  leaves  and  birds  upon  the 
brilliant  granite. 

Beyond  this  inclosure  and  the  shrine  within  it  the  court 
is  abruptly  ended  by  a  lofty  stone  wall,  high  as  the  tem¬ 
ple  roof,  and  built  into  the  face  of  the  mountain.  From 
its  very  edge  the  great  slope  is  covered  with  tall  trees 
that  look  down  upon  this  basin  filled  with  gilding  and 
lacquers,  with  carvings  and  bronze,  with  all  that  is  most 
artificial,  delicate,  labored,  and  transitory  in  the  art  of 
man. 

It  is  in  this  contrast,  insisted  upon  with  consummate 
skill,  that  lies  the  secret  beauty  of  the  art  of  the  men  who 
did  all  this.  The  very  lavishness  of  finish  and  of  detail, 
the  heaped-up  exaggerations  of  refinement  and  civiliza¬ 
tion,  bring  out  the  more  the  simplicity  and  quiet  of  the 
nature  about  them.  Up  to  the  very  edges  of  the  carv¬ 
ings  and  the  lacquers  grow  the  lichens  and  mosses  and 
small  things  of  the  forest.  The  gilded  temples  stand  hid¬ 
den  in  everlasting  hills  and  trees,  open  above  to  the  upper 
sky  which  lights  them,  and  to  the  changing  weather  with 
which  their  meaning  changes.  Nothing  could  recall  more 
completely  the  lessons  of  death,  the  permanence  of  change, 
and  the  transitoriness  of  man. 

We  went  up  the  steps  of  the  recessed  gate,  which  re¬ 
peats  the  former  theme  of  white  and  gold  and  black  in 
forms  of  an  elegance  that  touches  the  limits  of  good  taste. 
Its  heavy  black  roof,  whose  four  ridges  are  crowned  by 


OF  CLOISTER  WALLS,  INNER  COURT, 


long  bronze  dragons  and  crawling  lions,  opens  in  a  high 
curve  on  the  front  and  sides  to  show  under  the  bent 
white-and-gold  ridge-beams  a  pediment  strapped  and  in¬ 
tersected  by  spaces  of  small  carvings,  white  and  tinted, 
relieved  by  red  perpendiculars  of  beams. 

White  and  gold  shine  in  the  great  brackets  and  the  re¬ 
cesses  of  the  rafters.  Below  the  white  frieze,  carved  with 
many  small  figures  of  Chinese  story,  the  pillars  and  the 
lintel  are  inlaid  in  many  carved  woods,  ornaments  of 
dragons,  plants,  and  diapered  patterns  on  the  whitened 


LINTEL,  BRACKET  CAPITAL. 


ground.  The  opened  doors  repeat  the  same  faint  tones 
of  wood,  and  of  white  and  gold,  and  of  gilded  metals. 
The  walls,  which  are  open  at  the  base,  are  merely  lattice 
screens.  Their  exquisite  flowered  patterns  fluctuate  with 
gilded  accents  of  whites,  greens,  lavenders,  and  blues. 

The  gate  inside  is,  therefore,  nothing  but  an  orna¬ 
mented  trellis,  made  still  lighter  by  contrast  with  the 
solid  white  doors,  trellised  at  top,  but  whose  lower  panels 
are  exquisitely  embellished  with  inlaid  carved  woods  and 


77 


chiseled  golden  metal.  We  took  off  our  shoes,  and  as¬ 
cended  the  bronze-covered  steps  of  the  oratory  and 
shrine,  which  come  down  from  the  red-lacquered  veranda, 
behind  the  four  carved  white  pillars  of  the  descending 
porch.  Great  white  dragons  with  spiky  claws  project 
from  the  pillars,  and  crawl  in  and  out  of  the  double  tran¬ 
som.  In  the  shadow  of  the  roof  golden  monsters  hang 
from  the  complex  brackets.  The  friezes  and  bands  of 
the  temple  face  are  filled  with  carving,  delicate  as  em¬ 
bossed  tapestry,  while  the  panels,  deeply  cut  into  auspi¬ 
cious  forms  of  birds  and  flowers,  carry  full  color  and  gold 
far  up  into  the  golden  rafters. 

All  recesses  and  openings  are  filled  with  half-realities, 
as  if  to  suggest  a  dread  or  a  delicious  interior,  as  flowers 
might  pass  through  palings,  or  great  beasts,  types  of 
power,  might  show  great  limbs  through  confining  bar¬ 
riers.  The  long  building,  indeed,  is  a  great  framework, 
strongly  marked,  dropped  on  a  solid  base,  and  weighted 
down  by  a  heavy  roofing.  The  white  pillars  or  posts 
which  divide  its  face  and  corners  stand  clear  between  the 
black-and-gold  latticed  screens,  partly  lifted,  which  make 
almost  all  its  wall. 

Strips  of  the  sacramental  white  paper  hang  from  the 
lower  lintel  against  the  golden  shade  of  the  interior.  In¬ 
side,  pale  mats  cover  the  black-lacquer  floor.  Exquisite 
plain  gold  pillars,  recalling  Egyptian  shapes,  divide  the 
gilded  central  walls.  Here  and  there  on  the  gilded  tie- 
beams  curved  lines  of  emerald-green  or  crimson,  like 
tendrils,  mark  with  exquisite  sobriety  a  few  chamfered 
cuttings.  On  either  side  of  the  long  room  (fifty  feet)  are 
two  recesses  with  large  gold  panels  on  which  symbolic 
forms  are  freely  sketched,  and  carved  inlays  of  emblematic 
birds  fill  their  farthest  walls.  Their  ceilings  are  carved, 
inlaid,  and  painted  with  imperial  flowers,  mystic  birds, 

78 


INSIDE  THE  “CAT  GATE 


GATE  TO  THE  TOMB. 


m 


and  flying  figures,  and  the  pervading  crest  of  the  Toku- 
gawa.  For  these  were  the  waiting-rooms  of  the  family, 
and,  as  A———  remarked,  the  impression  is  that  of  a  prin¬ 
cess’s  exquisite  apartment,  as  if  the  Tartar  tent  had  grown 
into  greater  fixity,  and  had  been  touched  by  a  fairy’s 
wand. 

All  was  bare  except  for  an  occasional  sacred  mirror,  or 
hanging  gilded  ornament,  or  the  hanging  papers  of  the 
native  worship;  and  this  absence  of  the  Buddhist  images 
and  implements  of  worship  left  clear  and  distinct  the 
sense  of  a  personal  residence  — the  residence  of  a  divinized 
spirit,  not  unlike  the  one  that  he  was  used  to  in  life. 

Even  more,  on  the  outside  of  the  building  the  curved 
stone  base,  like  a  great  pedestal,  with  pierced  niches  filled 
with  flowers  carved  and  painted  between  the  great 
brackets  that  support  the  veranda,  makes  the  temple 
seem  as  if  only  deposited  for  a  time,  however  long  that 
time  may  be. 

We  merely  looked  at  the  central  passage,  that,  dividing 
the  building,  leads  down  and  then  up  to  the  shrine  itself, 
and  waited  for  the  time  when  we  shall  get  further  permis¬ 
sion,  and  I  shall  be  allowed  to  sketch  and  photograph.  As 
for  me,  I  was  wearied  with  the  pleasure  of  the  endless 
detail ;  for  even  now,  with  all  my  talk,  I  have  been  able 
to  note  but  a  little  of  what  I  can  remember. 

We  withdrew,  put  on  our  shoes  again  at  the  gate,  and 
turned  below  to  the  east  side  of  the  court.  We  passed 
the  Hall  of  Perfumes,  where  incense  was  once  burned  while 
the  monks  chanted  prayers  in  the  court,  as  they  did  when 
Iyeyasu  was  buried.  We  passed  the  Hall  of  the  Sacred 
Dances,  whose  open  front  makes  a  large,  shady,  dim  stage, 
with  a  great  red  railing  on  its  projecting  edge.  Within  it 
moved  a  white  shadow,  the  figure  of  a  woman-dancer. 
And  then  we  came  to  a  white-and-gold  gate,  inside  of  the 
roofed  cloister  wall.  Above  the  open  door  that  leads  to 
6  81 


it  sleeps  a  carved  white  cat,  in  high  relief,  said  to  have 
been  the  work  of  a  famous  left-handed  sculptor,  carpenter, 
and  architect.  Its  cautious  rest  may  not  have  been  so 
far  from  the  habits  of  the  living  Iyeyasu,  to  whose  tomb, 
farther  on,  this  is  the  entrance. 

Framed  by  the  gold  and  white  of  the  gate  and  of  the 
half-opened  door  rise  the  steps  built  into  the  hillside  and 
all  carpeted  with  brilliant  green  mosses.  The  stone  rail¬ 
ings,  which  for  two  hundred  feet  higher  up  accompany  the 
steps,  are  also  cushioned  with  this  green  velvet,  and  our 
steps  were  as  noiseless  as  if  those  of  the  white  cat  herself. 
All  is  green,  the  dark  trees  descending  in  sunlight  to  our 
right  and  rising  on  the  bank  to  our  left,  until  we  reach  an 
open  space  above,  with  a  bank  of  rocky  wall  inclosing  the 
clearing. 

Here  is  the  small  final  shrine,  and  behind  it  a  stone  es¬ 
planade  with  a  stone  fence,  within  which  stands,  in  the 
extreme  of  costly  simplicity,  the  bronze  tomb  of  Iyeyasu. 
A  large  bronze  gate,  roofed  in  bronze,  of  apparently  a 
single  casting,  with  bronze  doors,  closes  the  entrance. 
Before  the  monument,  on  a  low  stone  table,  are  the  Budd¬ 
hist  ornaments  —  the  storks,  the  lotus,  and  the  lion-covered 
vases,  all  of  brass  and  of  great  size. 

The  tomb  itself  is  of  pale  golden  bronze,  in  form  like 
an  Indian  shrine:  a  domed  cylinder  surmounted  by  a 
great  projecting  roof  which  rises  from  a  necking  that 
separates  and  connects  them  above  —  the  roof  a  finial  in 
the  shape  of  a  forked  flame.  Five  bronze  steps,  or  bases, 
support  this  emblematic  combination  of  the  cube,  the 
cylinder,  and  the  globe. 

The  crest  of  the  Tokugawa,  ten  times  repeated,  seals 
the  door  upon  the  burnt  ashes  of  the  man  who  crystal¬ 
lized  the  past  of  his  country  for  more  than  centuries,  and 
left  Japan  as  Perry  found  it.  All  his  precautions,  all  his 
elaborate  political  conservatism,  have  been  scattered  to 

82 


the  winds  with  the  Luck  of  the  Tokugawa,  and  the  hated 
foreigner  leans  in  sightseeing  curiosity  upon  the  railing 
of  his  tomb. 

But  the  solemnity  of  the  resting-place  cannot  be 
broken.  It  lies  apart  from  all  associations  of  history,  in 
this  extreme  of  cost  and  of  refined  simplicity,  in  face  of 


TOMB  OF  IY^YASU  TOKUGAWA. 


the  surrounding  powers  of  nature.  There  is  here  no 
defiance  of  time,  no  apparent  attempt  at  an  equal  per¬ 
manency;  it  is  like  a  courteous  acceptance  of  the  eternal 
peace,  the  eternal  nothingness  of  the  tomb. 

83 


We  leaned  against  the  stone  rails  and  talked  of  Iyeyasu 
—  of  his  good  nature,  of  his  habit  of  chatting  after  battle, 
of  his  fraudulent  pretensions  to  great  descent ;  and  of  the 
deadening  influence  of  the  Tokugavva  rule,  of  its  belittling 
the  classes  whose  energies  were  the  true  life  of  the  coun¬ 
try.  We  recognized,  indeed,  that  the  rulers  of  Iyeyasu’s 
time  might  have  perceived  the  dangers  of  change  for  so 
impressionable  a  race,  but  none  of  us  asked  whether  the 
loss  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  lives  of  courageous 
Christians  had  been  made  up  in  the  strength  of  the 
remaining  blood. 

Far  away  the  sounds  of  pilgrims’  clogs  echoed  from  the 
steps  of  distant  temples  ;  we  heard  the  running  of  many 
waters.  Above  us  a  few  crows,  frequenters  of  temples, 
spotted  the  light  for  a  moment,  and  their  cries  faded  with 
them  through  the  branches.  A  great,  heavy,  ugly  cater¬ 
pillar  crept  along  the  mossy  edge  of  the  balustrade,  like 
the  fresh  incarnation  of  a  soul  which  had  to  begin  it  all 


anew. 


ENTRANCE  TO  THE  TOMB  OF  IY^MITSU. 


IYEMITSU 


WE  were  told  by  our  good  friends  that  the  temple 
of  lyemitsu,  the  grandson  of  Iyeyasu,  far  less  pre¬ 
tentious  than  the  shrine  of  the  grandfather  and  founder, 
would  show  us  less  of  the  defects  which  accompanied 
our  enjoyment  of  yesterday.  The  successors  of  lyemitsu 
were  patrons  of  art,  sybarites,  of  those  born  to  enjoy 
what  their  ancestors  have  sown.  The  end  of  the  seven¬ 
teenth  century  has  a  peculiar  turn  with  us,  a  something 
of  show  and  decadence,  of  luxury  and  want  of  morals  ; 
and  the  same  marks  belong  to  it  even  in  Japan.  Indeed, 
I  feel  in  all  the  Tokugawa  splendor  something  not  very 
old,  something  which  reminds  me  that  this  was  but  the 
day  of  my  own  great-grandfather;  a  time  of  rest  after 
turmoil,  of  established  sovereigns  on  various  scales,  of 
full-bottomed  wigs,  of  great  courtliness,  of  great  ex¬ 
penses  in  big  and  little  Versailles.  I  miss  the  sense  of 
antiquity,  except  as  all  true  art  connects  with  the  past, 
as  the  Greek  has  explained  when  he  said  that  the  Par¬ 
thenon  looked  old  the  moment  it  was  done. 

The  temple  of  lyemitsu  is,  indeed,  charming  and  of 
feminine  beauty,  complete,  fitted  into  the  shape  of  the 
mountain  like  jewels  in  a  setting.  From  near  the  red 
pagoda  of  lyeyasu’s  grounds  a  wide  avenue  leads,  all  in 
shade,  to  an  opening,  narrowed  up  at  its  end  to  a  wall 
and  gate,  which  merely  seem  a  natural  entrance  between 
the  hills.  There  are  great  walls  to  the  avenue,  which 

87 


are  embankments  of  the  mountains.  From  them  at  in¬ 
tervals  fountains  splash  into  the  torrents  at  each  side,  and 
overhead  are  the  great  trees  and  their  thin  vault  of  blue 
shade.  The  first  gate  is  the  usual  roofed  one,  red,  with 
gilded  rafters  and  heavy  black  bronze  tiles,  and  with  two 
red  muscular  giants  in  the  niches  of  the  sides.  Its  rela¬ 
tive  simplicity  accentuates  the  loveliness  of  the  first  long 
court,  which  we  enter  on  its  narrowest  side.  Its  borders 
seem  all  natural,  made  of  nothing  but  the  steep  mountain 
sides,  filled  with  varieties  of  leafage  and  the  columns  of 
the  great  cedars.  These  indeterminate  edges  give  it  the 
look  of  a  valley  shut  at  each  end  by  the  gate  we  have 
passed,  and  by  another  far  off  disguised  by  trees.  This 
dell  is  paved  in  part,  and  with  hidden  care  laid  out  with 
smaller  trees.  Down  the  steep  hillside,  a  cascade  trem¬ 
bles  through  emerald  grass,  part  lost,  part  found  again, 
from  some  place  where,  indistinct  among  the  trees,  the 
jaws  of  a  great  bronze  dragon  discharge  its  first  waters. 
A  simple  trough  collects  one  rill  and  sends  it  into  the 
large  stone  cube  of  a  tank,  which  it  brims  over  and  then 
disappears. 

The  little  pavilion  over  this  well  is  the  only  building 
in  the  inclosure.  It  is  more  elegant  than  that  of  Iye- 
yasu,  with  its  twelve  columns,  three  at  each  corner,  slop¬ 
ing  in  more  decidedly,  their  white  stone  shafts  socketed 
in  metal  below  and  filleted  with  metal  above,  melting 
into  the  carved  white  architrave.  In  the  same  way  the 
carvings  and  the  blue  and  green  and  red  and  violet  of  the 
entablature  melt  in  the  reflections  under  the  shadow  of 
the  heavy  black-and-gold  roof  with  four  gables.  From 
under  the  ceiling,  and  hanging  below  the  lintels,  flutter 
many  colored  and  patterned  squares  of  cloth,  memorials 
of  recent  pilgrims. 

As  we  turn  to  the  highest  side  of  the  court  on  the  left 
and  ascend  slowly  steep,  high  steps  to  a  gorgeous  red 

88 


gate  above  our  heads,  whose  base  we  cannot  see,  the 
great  cedars  of  the  opposite  side  are  the  real  monuments, 
and  the  little  water-tank,  upon  which  we  now  look  down, 
seems  nothing  but  a  little  altar  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 


LOOKING  DOWN  ON  THE  WATER-TANK,  OR  SACRED  FONT, 
FROM  THE  SECOND  GATE. 


tain  forest.  The  gate,  when  we  look  back,  is  only  a 
frame,  and  its  upper  step  only  a  balcony  from  which 
to  look  at  the  high  picture  of  trees  in  shadow  and  sun¬ 
light  across  the  narrow  dell  which  we  can  only  just  feel 
beneath  us. 


89 


The  great  red  gate  has  two  giant  guardians  of  red  and 
green,  and  innumerable  bracketings  for  a  cornice,  all  out¬ 
lined,  and  confused  all  the  more  by  stripes  of  red  and 
green  and  white  and  blue. 


A  PRIEST  AT  IY&MITSU. 


Just  behind  the  gate,  as  if  it  led  to  nothing,  rises  again 
the  wall  of  the  mountain;  then  we  turn  at  right  angles 


90 


toward  a  great  esplanade,  lost  at  its  edges  in  trees,  from 
which  again  the  forest  would  be  all  the  picture  were  it 
not  that  farther  back  upon  the  hill  rises  a  high  wall,  with 
a  platform  and  lofty  steps,  and  the  carved  red-and-gold 
face  of  a  cloister,  with  another  still  richer  gate  of  a  red 
lacquer,  whose  suffering  by  time  has  made  it  more  rosy, 
more  flower-like. 

Up  these  steps  we  went,  the  distant  trees  of  the  moun¬ 
tains  ascending  with  us,  and  we  rested  in  the  red-and-gold 
shade.  Above  us  the  gold  brackets  of  the  roof  were  re¬ 
flected  back,  in  light  and  dark,  upon  the  gold  architrave, 
adorned  by  the  great  carved  peonies,  red  and  white,  and 
great  green  leaves  which  stood  out  with  deep  undercut¬ 
ting.  From  the  fluted  red  columns  projected  great  golden 
tapirs’  heads  and  paws,  streaked  with  red  like  the  bloom 
of  tulips.  The  gilded  metal  sockets  and  joinings  and  the 
faint  modeled  reliefs  of  the  wall,  all  of  dull  gold,  looked 
green  against  the  red  lacquer.  Beyond,  the  inner  lintel 
was  green,  like  malachite,  against  the  sunny  green  of  the 
forest.  Its  chamfered  edge  reflected  in  gold  the  lights  and 
shadows  beyond,  and  against  the  same  green  trees  stood 
out  the  long  heads  and  trunks  of  the  tapir  capitals  in  red 
and  gold. 

Through  this  framework  of  red  and  many-colored  gold 
we  passed  into  the  inner  court,  made  into  a  cloister  by 
walls  and  narrow  buildings,  rich  in  red  lacquer  and  black 
and  gold.  As  before  with  Iyeyasu,  so  also  within  this 
inclosure,  is  another  raised  upon  a  base  faced  with  great 
blocks  of  granite,  fretted,  spotted,  and  splashed  with  white 
and  purple  lichens.  The  sun-embroidered  wall  or  fence 
that  edges  it  is  black  with  a  bronze-and-gold  roof ;  its 
trellises  are  of  white,  edged  with  gold  ;  as  usual,  bands  of 
carved  and  colored  ornament  divide  so  as  almost  to  pierce 
its  face  ;  and  its  beams  are  capped  with  jointings  of  chiseled 
metal.  The  central  gate  spots  joyously  the  long  line  of 


9i 


black  and  gold  and  color  and  bronze,  with  imposts  of 
white  carving,  framed  in  rosy  lacquer,  and  with  gold  pil¬ 
lars  and  a  gold  lintel,  upon  which  is  spread  a  great  white 
dragon,  and  with  a  high  gold  pediment,  divided  by  recesses 
of  golden  ornament  on  ultramarine,  and  with  golden  doors 
fretted  with  a  fairy  filagree  of  golden  ornament. 

Through  this  lovely  gate,  with  an  exquisite  inlaid  ceil¬ 
ing  of  pearl  and  gold  and  walls  of  carved  and  colored  trel¬ 
lises,  we  pass  to  the  main  shrine,  only  just  behind  it. 

Here  again,  less  pretense  than  with  Iyeyasu,  and  greater 
and  more  thoughtful  elegance.  The  long  white  carved 
columns  of  the  portico  run  straight  up  to  the  brackets  of 
its  roof— -except  where,  to  support  the  cross-beam  of  the 
transoms,  project  red  lions’  heads  and  paws,  looking  like 
great  coral  buds.  The  entire  architrave  of  the  building  is 
divided  into  a  succession  of  long  friezes,  stepping  farther 
and  farther  out,  like  a  cornice,  until  they  meet  the  golden 
roof.  Only  a  few  gold  brackets  support  the  highest  golden 
beam  —  carvings,  color,  and  delicate  stampings  of  the  lac¬ 
quer  embroider  the  gold  with  a  bloom  of  color.  The  gold 
doors  look  like  jewelers'  work  in  heavy  filagree. 

All  within  was  quiet,  in  a  golden  splendor.  Through 
the  small  openings  of  the  black-and-gold  gratings  a  faint 
light  from  below  left  all  the  golden  interior  in  a  summer 
shade,  within  which  glittered  on  lacquer  tables  the  golden 
utensils  of  the  Buddhist  ceremonial.  From  the  coffered 
ceiling  hangs  the  metal  baldachin,  like  a  precious  lantern’s 
chain  without  a  lamp. 

The  faces  of  the  priests  who  were  there  were  known  to 
us,  the  elder’s  anxious  and  earnest,  the  younger’s  recalling 
an  Italian  monsignore.  One  of  them  was  reading  by  the 
uplifted  grating  and  rose  to  greet  us,  and  to  help  to  ex¬ 
plain.  We  entered  the  narrow  passage  which  makes  the 
center,  through  whose  returning  walls  project,  in  a  curious 
refinement  of  invention,  the  golden  eaves  of  the  inner 

92 


IN  THE  THIRD  GATE  OF  THE  TEMPLE  OF  IYlhllTSU,  LOOKING  TOWARD  THE  FOURTH. 


building  beyond.  Gratings  which  were  carved  and  gilded 
trellises  of  exquisite  design  gave  a  cool,  uncertain  light. 
We  passed  out  of  a  trellised  door  on  to  the  black  lac¬ 
quered  floor  of  a  veranda,  and  then  sat  awhile  in  a  simple 
room  with  our  hosts  to  look  at  temple  manuscripts  and 
treasures,  and  at  the  open  palanquin  which  once  brought 
here  the  dead  Iyemitsu  —  not  reduced  to  ashes,  as  his 


A  PRIEST  AT  IYJiMITSU. 


grandfather  Iyeyasu,  but  wrapped  and  covered  up  in  in¬ 
numerable  layers  of  costly  and  preserving  vermilion.  We 
passed  into  the  corridor  behind  the  building  and  looked 
at  the  picture  hanging  on  the  wall,  which  faces  the  moun¬ 
tain  angl  the  tomb,  in  which  Kuwan-on  the  Compassion¬ 
ate  sits  in  contemplation  beside  the  descending  stream  of 
life.  Then  for  a  few  moments  we  entered  by  a  low  door 
the  sanctuary,  narrow  and  high  and  with  pyramidal  roof. 


95 


KUWANON,  BY  OKIO. 


By  the  flickering  torch  which  alone  gave  light,  all 
seemed  of  gold  —  the  wall,  the  columns  which  run  up  to 
the  central  golden  roof,  and  the  transoms  which  connect 

96 


them.  In  the  darker  shade  stood  a  golden  shrine,  never 
opened.  Whatever  precious  details  there  may  be  were 
bathed  in  a  shade  made  of  reflected  gold.  An  exquisite 
feeling  of  gentle  solemnity  filled  the  place.  We  passed 
out  suddenly  into  the  glare  of  day  and  under  the  blazing 
blue  sky,  which  hung  over  the  inclosure  of  tall  trees  and 
the  temple  like  the  ceiling  of  a  tent. 

Again  a  great  wall,  spotted  with  moss  and  lichens,  is 
built  around  as  an  inclosure.  It  makes  a  base  for  the 
greater  wall  of  the  mountain  rising  above  it,  which  is  cov¬ 
ered  with  forest  trees,  as  if  the  skirting  of  the  wilderness 
of  northern  Japan  were  here  suddenly  limited.  Across 
one  single  opening,  on  the  one  side,  where  show  the 
seams  of  the  immense  cyclopean  construction,  and  joining 
two  corners,  broken  by  great  patches  of  the  shadows  of 
the  gigantic  trees,  stretches  a  white  wall,  heavily  roofed, 
against  a  shadow  almost  black.  In  its  center  is  a  strange, 
white  gate-building,  moundlike  in  shape,  absolutely  plain, 
but  capped  by  a  great  roof,  which  is  stretched  out  upon 
a  mass  of  brackets,  all  of  gold  and  colors,  and  with  carved 
golden  doors,  whose  central  panels  are  all  fretted  and 
chiseled  and  stamped  with  the  Wheel  of  the  law.  Here 
begin  the  distant  steps  leading  through  the  trees  to  the 
tomb  where  lies  the  body  of  Iyemitsu,  cased  in  layers  of 
vermilion,  under  golden  bronze,  like  his  grandfather 
Iyeyasu,  and  surrounded  by  the  still  more  solitary 
splendor  of  the  forest. 

Astonishing  as  is  the  contrast  to-day,  in  the  abundance 
and  glory  of  summer,  of  the  bronze  and  the  lacquered 
colors,  and  the  golden  carvings,  with  the  wild  rocks  and 
trees,  the  grass  and  the  mosses,  I  should  like  to  see  in 
the  snow  of  winter  this  richness  and  glitter  and  warmth 
of  red  and  white  and  black  and  gold. 

Can  it  bring  out  still  more  the  lavishness  of  refine¬ 
ment,  which  wells  up  as  if  exhaustless  ?  Does  its  white 


7 


97 


monotony  and  the  dark  of  the  great  cedars  make  one  feel 
still  more  the  recklessness  of  this  accumulation  of  gold 
and  lacquer  and  carving  and  bronze,  all  as  if  unprotected 
and  trusted  to  the  chances  of  the  recurring  seasons  ? 

As  we  repeat  each  look,  on  our  slow  return  through 
the  temples,  the  same  elegance,  the  same  refinement,  the 
same  indifference  to  the  outrages  of  time,  contrast  again 
with  the  permanence  and  the  forces  of  nature.  With  the 
fatigue  and  repetition  of  the  innumerable  beauties  of  gold 
and  color,  carving  and  bronze,  the  sense  of  an  exquisite 
art  brings  the  indefinable  sadness  that  belongs  to  it,  a  feel¬ 
ing  of  humility  and  of  the  nothingness  of  man.  Nowhere 
can  this  teaching  be  clearer  than  in  this  place  of  the 
tombs.  It  is  as  if  they  said,  serenely  or  splendidly,  in 
color  and  carving  and  bronze  and  gold :  “  We  are  the 
end  of  the  limits  of  human  endeavor.  Beyond  us  begins 
the  other  world,  and  we,  indeed,  shall  surely  pass  away, 
but  thou  remainest,  O  Eternal  Beauty  !  ” 


98 


TAO:  THE  WAY 


Nikko,  July  28. 


SOMI  and  Tategawa  were  the  architects  of  Nikko; 


\.J  Osomi  planned  the  lovely  pagoda, — -so  I  am  told, 
—  and  I  hasten  to  put  down  their  names.  At  that  time 
the  great  Tenkai  was  abbot.  He  was  a  friend  and  ad¬ 
viser  of  Iyeyasu,  as  he  was  the  teacher  of  Iyemitsu,  the 
grandson,  and  of  Hidetada,  the  less  illustrious  son.  It 
may  be  with  him  that  Iyeyasu  arranged  the  plan  of  fixed 
endowment  for  the  Church ;  an  endowment  not  to  be 
added  to  or  diminished,  so  that  it  should  be  an  element 
of  stability  and  no  longer  a  fluctuating  danger.  With 
this  seems  to  have  ended  the  possible  reasons  for  military 
dependents  in  the  service  of  the  Church. 

Tenkai  is  said  to  have  planned  or  prepared  beforehand 
the  temples  of  Iyeyasu,  which  might  explain  the  extremely 
short  time  given  in  the  record  for  their  building;  so  that, 
begun  in  1616,  the  stable,  the  surrounding  edifices,  and 
the  shrine  were  completed  in  the  third  month  of  1617. 

I  have  been  careful  to  give  you  some  account  of  the 
temples  of  Iyeyasu  and  Iyemitsu,  because  I  regret  having 
said  so  little  of  those  temples  of  Shiba  in  Tokio,  where  the 
remainder  of  the  Tokugawa  rulers  repose  in  a  state 
adorned  by  similar  splendors.  But  these  temples  of  the 
founders  are  of  a  more  complete  type,  and,  with  one  ex¬ 
ception,  seem  to  me  more  impressive.  Yet  even  with  the 
beauties  that  I  have  tried  to  describe,  I  am  still  not  quite 
so  carried  away  as  I  might  have  been  by  such  complete 
works  of  art.  There  is  a  something,  a  seeming  of  pre- 


99 


tense  or  effort  or  ingeniousness,  which  I  cannot  seize,  but 
which  seems  to  me  to  belong  to  a  splendor  not  quite  se¬ 
cure,  or  perhaps  only  just  secured, — something  like  what  I 
might  call  the  mark  of  the  parvenu. 

Yes;  I  think  that  is  it.  It  is  still,  after  all  this  time, 
just  a  little  new.  But  what  thorough  adaptation  of  means 
to  ends ;  how  delicately  subtle  the  arrangements,  and 
simple  ;  and  how  impossible  to  describe  through  words  or 
drawings.  How  the  result  alone  is  aimed  at,  and  what 
little  parade  is  made  of  the  intention  and  preparation. 
This  work,  which  seems  to  betray  an  inferiority  to  its  own 
ideal — this  work,  which  has  even  a  touch  of  the  vulgar, 
is  charming  enough  to  look  like  a  fairyland.  It  displays 
a  capacity  for  arrangement  which  none  of  us  to-day  could 
hope  to  control ;  has  a  charm  that  any  passer-by  could 
feel ;  has  more  details  of  beauty  than  all  our  architects 
now  living,  all  together,  could  dream  of  accomplishing  in 
the  longest  life.  When  I  began  to  reflect  how  this  wood 
and  plaster  had  more  of  the  dignity  of  art  and  of  its  ac¬ 
cessible  beauty  than  all  that  we  have  at  home,  if  melted 
together,  would  result  in;  that  these  frail  materials  con¬ 
veyed  to  the  mind  more  of  the  eternal  than  our  granite, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  something  was  absolutely  wrong 
with  us. 

And  the  cause  of  this  result  was  not  the  splendor  of 
line  and  color ;  it  was  not  the  refinement.  The  last  time 
I  could  recall  a  similar  sensation  had  been  before  some 
little  church  tower  of  England  ;  it  was  certainly  the  sub¬ 
ordination  of  all  means  to  a  single  end,  and  their  disap¬ 
pearance  in  one  impression. 

.  .  .  Since  my  first  visit  to  the  temples  my  mind  has 
been  dwelling  more  and  more  in  an  involuntary  manner 
upon  the  contrast  with  all  modern  art,  and  I  venture  to 
note  down  for  you  some  of  the  thoughts  forced  upon  me. 
It  seems  as  if  I  were  really  reminded  of  what  I  always 


IOO 


knew,  or  ought  to  have  known  ;  and  perhaps  what  I  may 
say  about  ourselves  is  as  good  a  way  as  any  other  of  giv¬ 
ing  an  opinion  upon  what  I  see  here.  For,  indeed,  what 
I  see  here  that  I  admire  I  feel  as  though  I  had  always 
known,  had  already  seen;  it  is  rather  most  of  our  own 
that  seems  queer,  strange,  and  often  unreasonable. 

I  can  make  no  set  and  orderly  arrangement  of  my 
rather  confused  thinking,  but  can  only  trace  it  out  as  it 
occurred  to  me — as  if  it  were  from  outside;  as  if  some¬ 
thing  whispered  to  me  now  and  then  out  of  small  occur¬ 
rences,  and  said,  “Don’t  you  understand  more  clearly?” 

.  .  .  On  leaving  the  temples  we  went  back  to  our 
friends’  house,  which  was  once  the  residence  of  the  re¬ 
gent  of  Japan — -a  large,  low  wooden  building  of  the  kind 
so  carefully  described  by  Mr.  Morse  in  his  book.  All  is 
extremely  simple  ;  there  is  nothing  to  call  any  attention. 
The  woodwork  is  merely  put  together  with  great  care ; 
some  little  panels  of  the  closets  are  nicely  trimmed  with 
metal  and  highly  ornamented.  This,  with  metal  nail- 
heads  and  a  pretty  wall-paper,  is  all  the  decoration. 

Here  we  found  the  mail  and  papers,  and  enjoyed  the 
watering-place  feeling  of  news  from  town.  There  were 
copies  of  “Life”  and  of  the  London  “Punch,”  many  of 
whose  drawings  did  not  look  out  of  place  in  this  land  of 
clever  sketchers.  Indeed,  that  in  them  which  once  seemed 
good  across  the  seas  still  held  its  own  in  presence  of  the 
little  prodigies  of  technique  that  one  meets  in  Japanese 
drawings. 

Indeed,  they  recalled  one  another.  Both  call  out  one’s 
sudden  recollection  of  some  facts  in  nature  ;  and  besides, 
all  good  sketches  resemble  one  another  as  being  the 
nearest  approach  to  the  highest  finished  work.  They 
have  in  common  with  it  the  essential  merit  of  being  bet¬ 
ter  than  they  appear,  of  indicating  more  than  is  necessary 
to  tell  the  tale,  of  not  being  strictly  measurable  quantities. 


We  grow  so  ungrateful  when  too  well  treated  that  we 
forget  how  Mr.  Du  Maurier  throws  in,  over  and  above 
the  social  epigram  in  lines,  an  elegance  and  grace  that 
might  belong  to  a  poetic  picture  ;  that  Mr.  Keene  tells 
his  story  over  and  over  again  in  the  very  folds  of  each  in¬ 
dividual’s  dress ;  that  he  will,  unconcernedly,  present  us 
with  a  landscape  as  full  of  nature  as  his  human  figures, 
instead  of  the  indifferent  background  which  would  have 
been  sufficient  for  the  story  of  the  caricaturist.  Now,  the 
feeling  of  disenchantment,  of  having  “  found  out  ”  appear¬ 
ances,  of  having  come  to  the  end  of  a  thing,  is  never  for¬ 
given  by  the  average  healthy  mind.  In  greater  things 
one  turns,  some  day,  to  those  which  are  always  richer  and 
fuller  of  meaning  with  time, —  as  one  looks  to-day  at  a 
Corot  or  a  Delacroix  or  a  Millet  once  uncared-for, —  and 
that  means  that  at  length  our  eyes  are  opened.  The 
sketch,  like  the  great  work  of  art,  is  better  than  it  ap¬ 
pears,  and  recalls  to  me  the  emperor  in  the  story,  whom 
the  old  woman  could  not  recognize  in  the  presence  of  the 
big  drum-major.  We  can  appreciate  what  suffering  the 
little  old  woman  underwent  when  she  discovered  her  mis¬ 
take,  and  how  she  never  forgave  the  big  drum-major. 
For  mankind  has  never  believed  at  heart  that  the  work 
itself  is  to  be  judged,  but  has  always  (at  least  in  the  case 
of  one’s  neighbor)  acknowledged  that  it  is  the  work  of  art 
which  judges  us. 

So  says  a  Japanese  friend,  and  I  think  that  he  has  it 
exactly.  Hence  an  importance  attaches  to  criticism  which 
otherwise  would  be  inexplainable,— the  importance  there 
is  in  being  right, —  because  we  shall  be  judged  ourselves  if 
we  are  wrong,  and  often  by  ourselves  as  judges. 

.  .  .  And  late  numbers  of  the  magazines  had  come, 
pleasant  to  look  over  before  dinner, —  while  the  noiseless 
servants  glided  over  the  matting,  and  our  hostess  put 
on  her  Japanese  costume, — serving  to  make  the  distance 


102 


greater,  as  we  feel  that  all  goes  on  at  home  with  the  usual 
regularity. 

Some  architectural  sketches  in  facsimile  in  a  magazine 
became  entangled  with  the  thread  of  my  thinking  and 
brought  to  my  mind  an  inevitable  lesson. 

They  were  charming,  and  so  different  from  the  realities 
which  they  were  meant  to  embody.  One  I  dv/elt  upon, 
bright  and  clever,  where  every  dark  of  window  or  of 
shadow  intensified  the  joyfulness  of  the  white  wall  of  a 
residence  at  home,  which  you  daily,  pass.  In  the  reality, 
alas  !  its  Fifth  Avenue  monotony  is  unrelieved.  The  wall 
is  not  bright,  the  windows  are  paler  than  the  walls,  and 
the  projections  and  adornment  are  duller  yet.  The  draw¬ 
ing  was  an  abstraction,  probably  meant  for  the  sweet  en¬ 
ticement  of  the  client,  and  was  what  the  building  should 
have  been.  The  draughtsman  “  knew  better  than  he 
builded.”  As  my  mind  analyzed  this  curious  profes¬ 
sional  misstatement  of  truth,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could 
see  how  the  art  of  architecture  in  Japan  was  real  com¬ 
pared  to  ours,  even  though  none  of  their  architects,  any 
more  than  those  of  the  great  past  of  the  world,  could  have 
made  such  a  drawing  —  such  a  brilliant  promise  of  a  per¬ 
formance  not  to  be,  such  a  beautifully  engraved  check 
upon  a  bank  where  there  were  no  funds.  Not  knowing 
the  science  and  art  of  perspective  drawing,  nor  the  power 
of  representing  shadows  according  to  rule,  nor  having  the 
habit  of  ruling  lines  with  a  ruler  to  give  interest,  nor  of 
throwing  little  witty  accents  of  dark  to  fill  up  blanks,  they 
were  perhaps  the  more  obliged  to  concentrate  their  powers 
upon  the  end  of  the  work ;  and  their  real  motive  was  the 
work  itself. 

This  may  be  strange  and  contradictory  to  the  modern 
Western  mind,  gradually  accustomed  to  polished  cartoons 
for  bad  paintings  and  worse  glass,  to  remarkable  designs 
for  decoration  and  architecture  which  look  their  best  in 


103 


woodcuts,  to  great  decorative  paintings  which  are  carried 
out  so  that  they  may  be  photographed  without  any  injury 
to  their  color,  nay,  to  its  vast  improvement.  Do  you  re¬ 
member  how  B — — ,  the  famous  sculptor,  used  to  preach 
to  me  that  to-day  no  one  looked  at  a  thing  itself,  no  one 
expected  to,  and  that  the  fame  of  the  artist  was  for  those 
whose  work  could  be  adequately  represented  in  the  news¬ 
papers.  That  an  excellence  which  could  not  be  dupli¬ 
cated,  that  a  tone  which  could  no  be  matched,  that  a  line 
which  could  not  be  copied,  was  not  to  be  appreciated 
and  could  not  be  cared  for.  In  fact,  that  such  refine¬ 
ments  were  only  worthy  of  the  mind  of  an  Oriental,  “  of 
a  man  accustomed  to  wear  the  moon  embroidered  on 
his  back.”  Why  spend  days  in  obtaining  the  color  of 
a  wall  which  any  architect  will  think  can  be  adequately 
replaced  by  his  description  of  something  like  it  to  the 
painting  firm  around  the  corner  ?  Why  make  the  thing 
itself,  if  something  like  it  will  do  as  well  ?  Why  strike  the 
note  exactly,  if  any  sound  near  it  satisfies  the  average 
ear  ?  For  us,  to-day,  things  and  realities  no  longer  exist. 
It  is  in  their  descriptions  that  we  believe.  Even  in  most 
cultivated  France  an  architect  or  designer  like  Viollet-le- 
Duc  will  seriously  undertake  to  restore  old  work,  every 
square  inch  of  which  has  had  the  patient  toil  of  souls  full 
of  love  and  desire  of  the  best,  by  rubbing  it  all  out,  and 
making  a  paper  drawing  or  literary  description  for  others 
to  restore  again  in  a  few  modern  weeks  the  value  of  an¬ 
cient  years  of  ineffably  intelligent  care.  Consider  this 
impossibility  of  getting  a  decent  restoration  carried  out 
by  our  best  intelligences,  and  note  that  while  they  are  un¬ 
able  with  all  money  and  talk  and  book-learning  to  replace 
the  past  in  a  way  that  can  deceive  us,  there  exist  patient, 
obscure  workmen  who,  beginning  at  the  other  end  of  the 
work,  produce  little  marvels  of  deception  in  false  antiqui¬ 
ties —  purchased  by  museums  and  amateurs  for  sums  their 


104 


authors  never  could  get  in  their  proper  name.  But  these 
latter  have  only  one  object,  the  thing  itself,  and  are  judged 
by  the  result ;  while  we,  the  arbiters  and  directors  better 
known,  who  never  employ  them,  are  satisfied,  and  satisfy 
others  by  our  having  filed  in  the  archives  of  to-day  no¬ 
tices  that  we  are  going  to  do  something  in  the  utterly 
correct  way.  I  took  as  an  example  our  friend  Viollet-le- 
Duc,  the  remarkable  architect  whose  works  we  have  both 
studied,  because  he  has  written  well, —  in  some  ways,  no 
one  more  acutely  and  more  wisely;  because  of  his  real 
learning,  and  on  account  of  his  very  great  experience. 
Is  all  that  this  man  and  his  pupils  did  in  their  own  art  of 
making,  worth,  as  art,  the  broken  carving  that  I  kick 
to-day  out  of  my  path  ? 

Has  such  a  risible  calamity  ever  occurred  before  in 
any  age  ?  Destruction  there  has  been,  replacing  of  old, 
good  work  with  better  or  with  worse  by  people  who  did 
not  understand,  or  care,  or  pretend  to  care;  but  the  re¬ 
placing  of  good  with  bad  by  people  who  do  understand, 
and  who  claim  to  care,  has  never  been  a  curse  until  to¬ 
day.  This  failure  in  all  restoration,  in  all  doing  of  the 
thing  itself,  must  be  directly  connected  with  our  pedantic 
education  and  with  our  belief  in  convenient  appliances, 
in  propositions,  in  labor-saving  classifications,  in  action 
on  paper,  in  projects  for  future  work,  in  soul-saving  the¬ 
ories  and  beliefs — in  anything  except  being  saved  by  the 
- — work  itself. 

Indeed,  I  have  always  felt  that  perhaps  in  the  case  of 
poor  Richardson,  just  dead,  we  may  begin  to  see  the 
shape  of  an  exception,  and  can  realize  what  can  be  ac¬ 
complished  through  what  we  called  deficiencies.  He  was 
obliged,  in  the  first  place,  to  throw  overboard  in  dealing 
with  new  problems  all  his  educational  recipes  learned  in 
other  countries.  Then,  do  you  think  that  if  he  had  drawn 
charming  drawings  beforehand  he  would  have  been  able  to 

105 


change  them,  to  keep  his  building  in  hand,  as  so  much 
plastic  material  ?  No;  the  very  tenacity  needed  for  car¬ 
rying  out  anything  large  would  have  forced  him  to  re¬ 
spect  his  own  wish  once  finally  expressed,  while  the  careful 
studies  of  his  assistants  were  only  aground  to  inquire  into, 
and,  lastly,  to  choose  from. 

For  many  little  prettinesses  and  perfections  do  not 
make  a  great  unity.  Through  my  mind  passes  the  remin¬ 
iscence  of  something  I  have  just  been  reading,  the  words 
of  an  old  Chinese  writer,  an  expounder  of  Tao  (the  Way), 
who  said  what  he  thought  of  such  matters  some  twenty- 
five  centuries  ago.  What  he  said  runs  somewhat  in  this 
way : 

The  snake  hissed  at  the  wind,  saying :  “I  at  least  have  a 
form,  but  you  are  neither  this  nor  that,  and  you  blow  roughly 
through  the  world,  blustering  from  the  seas  of  the  north  to  the 
seas  of  the  south.” 

“It  is  true,”  replied  the  wind,  “  that  I  blow  roughly,  as  you 
say,  and  that  I  am  inferior  to  those  that  point  or  kick  at  me,  in 
that  I  cannot  do  the  same  to  them.  On  the  other  hand,  I  blow 
strongly  and  fill  the  air,  and  I  can  break  huge  trees  and  destroy 
large  buildings.  Out  of  many  small  things  in  which  1  do  not 
excel  I  make  one  great  one  in  which  I  do  excel." 

In  the  domains  of  the  One  there  may  not  be  managing. 

Hence,  also,  the  difficulty,  I  had  almost  said  the  im¬ 
possibility,  of  finding  a  designer  to-day  capable  of  making 
a  monument :  say,  for  instance,  a  tomb,  or  a  commem¬ 
orative,  ideal  building  —  a  cathedral,  or  a  little  mem¬ 
orial.  There  is  no  necessity  in  such  forms  of  art,  nothing 
to  call  into  play  the  energies  devoted  to  usefulness,  to 
getting  on,  to  adaptation,  to  cleverness,  which  the  same 
Taoist  says  is  the  way  of  man,  while  integrity  is  the 
way  of  God. 

106 


Art  alone,  pure,  by  itself,  can  be  here  the  object  of  the 
maker’s  contemplation ;  the  laws  of  the  universe  that  men 
call  beauty  are  the  true  and  only  sufficient  materials 
of  construction. 

With  what  preparation  does  a  designer  of  humbugs 
come  to  such  work,  failure  in  which  cannot  be  excused 
because  of  any  practical  reasons,  because  of  any  pressing 
necessities  — -  that  really  belongs  to  the  public,  to  every¬ 
body  more  than  to  its  possessor,  or  to  its  owner,  or  to 
those  who  have  paid  for  it— -that,  finally,  can  be  saved 
from  adverse  criticism  only  for  a  short  time,  while  pass¬ 
ing  interests  are  concerned. 

Who  knows  this  better  than  yourself  ?  Where  on 
earth  to-day  can  you  find  a  thing  done  by  us  designers 
that  an  artist  will  go  to  look  at  for  love,  for  the  deep  de¬ 
sire  of  enjoyment  which  makes  us  visit  so  many  little 
things  of  the  past,  and  go  far  for  them  ?  If  you  can, 
imagine  any  painter  desiring  to  note,  so  as  to  make  them 
his  own  by  copy,  a  modern  set  of  moldings,  the  corner 
of  a  modern  building. 

And  yet  what  a  rush  of  delight  comes  upon  us  with  a 
few  Greek  moldings,  with  a  fragment  of  Greek  or  Gothic 
ornament,  with  the  mere  look  of  the  walls  of  some  good 
old  building.  How  the  pleasure  and  the  emotions  of 
those  who  made  them  have  been  built  into  them,  and  are 
reflected  back  to  us,  like  the  smile  from  a  human  face. 
I  know  that  I  have  told  you  often  how  the  fragment  of  a 
Gothic  window  from  old  English  Boston  set  into  the 
cloister  of  Trinity  of  the  new  Boston  always  seemed  to 
me  to  outweigh  the  entire  building  in  which  it  rests. 
And  yet  it  is  only  a  poor  fragment  of  no  great  period. 
But  then  the  makers  thought  and  felt  in  the  materials 
that  they  worked  in,  even  if  their  drawings  were  rude 
and  incomplete  and  often  incorrect.  And  no  architect 
seems  to  realize  to-day  that  his  walls  could  give  us  the 


07 


same  emotions  that  we  receive  from  a  Rembrandt,  or  a 
Van  Eyck,  or  a  Veronese,  and  for  the  same  reasons,  and 
through  a  similar  use  of  a  real  technique. 

You  draw  well ;  you  can  make  a  sketch,  I  am  sure, 
which,  like  many  others,  would  have  spots  of  light  on  a 
black  surface,  or  a  pretty  wash  of  sky  above  it,  or  little 
patches  of  shadow,  like  clever  lichens,  spread  over  it,  and 
that  would  be  correct  in  artificial  perspective,  and  recall 
something  of  older  design,  and  have  no  great  blemishes 
to  take  hold  of.  How  far  would  it  help  you  to  have 
made  a  million  such  if  you  seriously  wished  to  do  a  thing 
for  itself,  not  for  its  effects  upon  a  client,  nor  for  a  claim 
upon  the  public,  nor  for  a  salve  to  your  own  vanity  ? 

And  now  do  you  see  how,  as  we  architects  and  de¬ 
signers  gradually  work  more  and  more  on  paper  and  not 
in  the  real,  our  energies  are  worked  out  in  accomplishing 
before  we  get  to  our  real  work, —  that  of  building  a  work 
of  art, —  and  the  result  of  our  drawings  grows  feebler 
and  feebler  and  tamer  as  it  presses  to  its  end.  Then,  for 
this  weak  frame  of  conception,  the  men  who  have  come 
in  to  help  (and  that  only  because  the  director’s  time 
would  not  admit  of  his  doing  all  himself,  otherwise  he 
would,  in  his  jealous  weakness,  adorn  as  poorly  as  he 
imagines) —  then,  I  say,  if  the  painter,  the  sculptor,  the 
decorator,  shows  any  strength  or  power,  there  is  another 
danger.  There  is  danger  that  the  sculptor’s  relief  will  be 
more  powerful  than  the  weak  projections  of  solid  ma¬ 
sonry, —  that  the  lines  of  the  painter  will  be  grander  and 
more  ample  than  those  which  were  meant  to  guide  and 
confine  them  —  that  the  paint  of  the  decorator  will  ap¬ 
pear  more  massive  and  more  supporting  than  the  walls 
of  the  architect.  Whence  all  will  be  tamed,  all  annulled 
and  made  worthless  and  paltry,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the 
weak  efforts  of  the  master  directing.  And  for  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  art  we  shall  have  buildings  which 

108 


the  Greek  or  the  Roman,  the  Medieval  or  the  Oriental, 
would  have  been  unable  to  adorn,  while  in  their  times 
the  masters  who  were  architects,  great  and  small,  found 
no  trouble  in  placing  within  their  buildings,  made  fam¬ 
ous  to  all  time  by  this  choice,  the  sculptures  of  the  Parthe¬ 
non  or  of  Olympia,  the  glass  or  the  statues  of  Christian 
cathedrals,  or  the  carvings  of  India  or  of  Japan. 

So  that  when  the  greatest  painter  of  the  century  left 
instructions  for  his  tomb,  he  asked  that  it  should  be  cop¬ 
ied  from  some  former  one  of  antiquity  or  renaissance,  so 
that  it  might  have- — to  typify  his  love  and  his  dislikes  — 
masculine  moldings  and  a  manly  character,  contrary,  as 
he  said,  “  to  all  that  is  done  to-day  in  architecture.” 

You  may  say  that  through  all  this  wandering  of  thought 
I  am  telling  you  little  about  Japanese  art.  Wait ;  perhaps  I 
may  be  merely  preparing  your  mind  and  mine  for  what  I 
shall  have  to  say  later.  Or,  rather,  let  us  think  that  I  am 
carried  away  by  the  spirit,  and  that  I  am  certainly  talking 
of  what  I  do  not  find  here  ;  and  if  there  is  no  novelty  in 
what  I  say,  and  that  you  know  it,  and  have  always  known 
it,  we  shall  come  back  to  what  you  also  know,  that  art  is 
the  same  everywhere  and  always,  and  that  I  need  not 
come  this  distance  to  learn  its  principles.  If  there  is 
anything  good  here,  it  must  resemble  some  of  the  good 
that  we  have  with  us.  But  here  at  least  I  am  freer,  de¬ 
livered  from  a  world  of  canting  phrases,  of  perverted 
thought,  which  I  am  obliged  to  breathe  in  at  home  so  as 
to  be  stained  by  them.  Whatever  pedantry  may  be  here, 
I  have  not  had  to  live  with  it,  and  I  bear  no  responsibility 
in  its  existence.  And  then  again,  art  here  seems  to  be  a 
common  possession,  has  not  been  apparently  separated 
from  the  masses,  from  the  original  feeling  of  mankind. 

To-day  at  dinner,  Kato,  who  was  waiting  upon  us, 
could  give  his  opinion  upon  the  authenticity  of  some 
old  master’s  work,  at  the  request  of  our  host,  himself  a 


109 


great  authority ;  so  that  I  could  continue  my  dreaming 
through  the  conversation  and  the  semi-European  courses, 
marked  by  my  first  acquaintance  with  the  taste  of  bam¬ 
boo  shoots  —  a  little  delicacy  sent  in  by  A-chin,  the  chil¬ 
dren’s  nurse. 

Much  was  talked  of  the  Tokugawa  race,  and  some 
cruelty  was  shown  to  their  memory  as  a  family  of  par¬ 
venus  who  had  usurped  the  power  theoretically  invested 
in  the  mikados- — an  usurpation  practised  over  and  over 
again  by  every  successful  shogun,  as  by  Yoritomo,  Tai- 
kosama.  Indeed,  the  Ashikaga  move  through  Japanese 
history  against  a  background  of  mikados.  And  when 
O — —  comes  in  later  he  talks  of  Masashige,  and  of 
others,  who  during  centuries,  at  long  intervals,  attempted 
to  realize  what  has  now  been  accomplished  — -  the  restora¬ 
tion  of  the  mikado  to  his  ancient  powers  and  rulership  of 
twenty  centuries  ago. 

Yes,  the  Tokugawa  splendor  was  that  of  parvenus. 
Their  half-divine  masters  lie  in  no  gilded  shrines  nor  un¬ 
der  monumental  bronze,  but  buried  beneath  the  elements, 
their  graves  marked  only  by  mounds  or  trees,  as  it  might 
have  been  with  their  earliest  ancestors,  the  peaceful  chief¬ 
tains  of  a  primitive  family :  a  simplicity  recalled  to-day 
by  the  little  fragment  of  dried  fish  that  accompanies  pres¬ 
ents,  in  memory  of  the  original  humility  of  the  fishing 
tribes,  the  ancestors  of  this  almost  over-cultivated  race. 

These  Tokugawa,  then,  were  parvenus,  and  naturally 
asked  of  art,  which  lasts  and  has  lasted  and  is  to  last,  an 
affirmation  of  their  new  departure.  This  splendor  was 
made  for  them,  and  its  delicious  refinement  has  not  quite 
escaped  that  something  which  troubled  me  at  Shiba  — 
an  anxiety  that  all  should  be  splendid  and  perfect,  an  un¬ 
willingness  to  take  anything  for  granted.  And  yet,  by 
comparison,  this  looks  like  a  fairyland  of  refinement. 
What  should  we  do  when  called  to  help  a  new  man  to 


no 


assist  or  to  sweeten  his  acquired  position  ?  What  vulgar¬ 
ity  of  vulgarities  should  we  produce  ?  Think  of  the  pre¬ 
posterous  dwellings,  the  vulgar  adornments  given  to  the 
rich  ;  the  second-hand  clothing  in  which  newly  acquired 
power  is  wrapped.  The  English  cad,  and  the  Frenchman 
not  good  enough  for  home,  put  the  finishing  touch  upon 
the  proofs  of  culture  which  are  to  represent  them  to  their 
children. 

I  need  not  refer  to  what  is  seen  in  San  Francisco  as  an 
example.  At  home  in  New  York  we  have  more  than 
are  pleasant  to  think  of.  I  know  that  some  may  say  that 
we  have  only  what  we  deserve  for  thinking  that  we  can 
escape,  in  the  laws  that  govern  art,  the  rules  that  we  have 
found  to  hold  in  everything  else. 

Some  years  ago  I  told  you  how  once  a  purveyor  of 
decorations  for  the  millionaire,  a  great  man  in  his  line, 
explained  to  me  how  and  why  he  had  met  his  clients 
half-way.  “  You  despise  my  work,”  he  said,  “  though 
you  are  too  polite  to  say  so,”  —  for  we  were  friendly  in  a 
manner, — “  and  yet  I  can  say  that  I  am  more  thoroughly 
in  the  right  than  those  who  would  seek  to  give  these  men 
an  artistic  clothing  fit  for  princes.  Is  there  anything 
more  certain  than  that  the  artist  represents  his  age,  and 
is  all  the  greater  for  embodying  it.  Now  that  is  what  I 
do.  You  will  say  that  my  work  is  not  deeply  consid¬ 
ered,  though  it  is  extremely  careful  in  execution ;  that  its 
aims  are  not  high ;  that  it  is  not  sober ;  that  it  is  showy, 
perhaps  even  more;  that  it  is  loud  occasionally  —  when  it 
is  not  tame ;  that  it  shows  for  all  it  is  worth,  and  is  never 
better  than  it  looks.  And  who,  pray,  are  the  people  that 
live  surrounded  by  what  I  make  ?  Are  they  not  repre¬ 
sented  by  what  I  do  ?  Do  they  not  want  show  of  such  a 
kind  as  can  be  easily  understood,  refinement  that  shall 
not  remind  others  of  a  refinement  greater  than  theirs, 
money  spent  largely,  but  showing  for  every  dollar?  They 


iii 


want  everything  quick,  because  they  have  always  been  in 
a  hurry  ;  they  want  it  on  time,  whatever  happens,  be¬ 
cause  they  are  accustomed  to  time  bargains;  they  want 
it  advertisable,  because  they  live  by  advertising  ;  and  they 
gradually  believe  in  the  value  of  the  pretenses  they  have 
made  to  others.  They  are  not  troubled  by  what  they 
feel  is  transient,  because  their  experience  has  been  to  pass 
on  to  others  the  things  they  preferred  not  to  keep.  They 
feel  suspicious  of  anything  that  claims  or  seems  to  be 
better  than  it  looks;  is  not  their  business  to  sell  dearer 
than  they  buy  ?  They  must  not  be  singular,  because  they 
must  fit  into  some  place  already  occupied. 

“  I  claim  to  have  fully  expressed  all  this  of  them  in 
what  I  do,  and  I  care  little  for  the  envious  contempt  of 
the  architects  who  have  to  employ  me  and  who  would  like 
to  have  my  place  and  wield  my  influence.  And  so  I  reflect 
my  clients,  and  my  art  will  have  given  what  they  are.” 

Thus  the  great  German  rolled  out  his  mind  with  the 
Teutonic  delight  at  giving  an  appearance  of  pure  intellect 
to  the  interested  working  of  his  will  —  incidentally  sneer¬ 
ing  at  the  peacock  feathers,  the  sad-eyed  dados,  the  pov¬ 
erty-stricken  sentimentality,  half  esthetic,  half  shopkeeper, 
of  his  English  rivals,  or  at  the  blunders  in  art  which  Mr. 
Stanford  White  once  called  our  “  native  Hottentot  style.” 

Of  course  my  German  was  merely  using  a  current 
sophistry  that  is  only  worth  quoting  to  emphasize  the 
truth. 

Augustus,  the  greatest  of  all  parvenus,  did  not  ask  of 
Virgil  to  recall  in  verse  the  cruelties  of  civil  war.  No  true 
artist  has  ever  sought  to  be  degraded ;  no  worker  of  the 
Middle  Ages  has  reflected  the  brutality  of  the  world 
around  him.  On  the  contrary,  he  has  appealed  to  its 
chivalry  and  its  religion.  No  treacherous  adventurer  of 
the  Renaissance  is  pictured  in  the  sunny,  refined  architec¬ 
ture  that  was  made  for  him.  You  and  I  know  that  art  is 


1 12 


not  the  attempt  at  reflecting  others,  at  taking  possession 
of  others,  who  belong  to  themselves ;  but  that  it  is  an  at¬ 
tempt  at  keeping  possession  of  one’s  self.  It  is  often  a 
protest  at  what  is  displeasing  and  mean  about  us;  it  is  an 
appeal  to  what  is  better.  That  is  its  most  real  value.  It 
is  an  appeal  to  peace  in  time  of  brutal  war,  an  appeal  to 
courageous  war  in  time  of  ignoble  peace;  it  is  an  appeal 
to  the  permanent  reality  in  presence  of  the  transient;  it 
is  an  attempt  to  rest  for  a  moment  in  the  true  way. 

We  are  augurs  conversing  together,  and  we  can  afford 
to  laugh  at  any  respected  absurdity.  We  know  that  clev¬ 
erness  is  not  the  way  to  the  reality ;  cleverness  is  only 
man’s  weak  substitute  for  integrity,  which  is  from  God. 

All  these  words— -miscalled  ideas-— poured  out  by  my 
German  friend  and  his  congeners  are  merely  records  of 
merchants’  ways  of  looking  at  the  use  of  a  thing,  not  at 
the  thing  itself.  Such  people  are  persuaded  that  they 
must  surely  know  about  the  thing  they  sell  or  furnish.  If 
not  they,  then  who?  For  none  can  be  so  impartial,  as 
none  are  so  disinterested,  in  the  use  of  the  thing  sold. 

It  is  too  far  back  for  you  to  remember  the  charming 
Blanco,  the  great  slave-dealer,  but  you  may  have  heard 
of  his  saying,  which  covers  the  side  of  the  dealer.  He 
had  been  asked  why  he  felt  so  secure  in  his  judgment  of 
his  fellow-creatures,  and  especially  of  women,  “Because,” 
said  he,  “I  have  traded  in  so  many”— -J'en  ai  tant  vendu. 
I  have  sometimes  quoted  this  saying  to  dealers  in  works 
of  art,  to  dealers  in  knowledge  about  art,  without,  how¬ 
ever,  any  success  in  pleasing  them.  In  fact,  one  has  no 
judgment  of  one’s  own  in  regard  to  anything  sold  that  is 
not  a  matter  of  utility  until  one  feels  quite  thoroughly,  as 
if  it  were  one’s  own,  the  sense  of  Talleyrand’s  treatment 
of  the  persuasive  dealer.  I  am  sure  that  you  do  not  know 
the  story.  Two  friends  of  his,  ladies  of  rank,  had  chosen 
his  study  as  a  place  of  meeting.  They  wished  to  select 

8  113 


some  ring,  some  bracelet,  for  a  gift,  and  the  great  jeweler 
of  Paris  was  to  send  one  of  his  salesmen  with  sufficient  to 
choose  from.  Of  course  the  choice  was  soon  limited  to 
two,  and  there  paused,  until  Talleyrand,  sitting  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  long  library,  called  out,  “  Let  me  un¬ 
dertake  to  help  you  to  make  your  decision.  Young  man, 
of  these  two  trinkets  tell  me  which  you  prefer.”  “This 
one,  certainly,  your  Excellency.”  “Then,”  ended  the 
experienced  cynic,  “please  accept  it  for  your  sweetheart; 
and  I  think,  ladies,  that  you  had  better  take  the  other.” 
I  tell  you  anecdotes ;  are  they  not  as  good  as  reasons  ? 

Listen  to  what  my  Chinese  writer  says:  “Of  language 
put  into  other  people’s  mouths,  nine-tenths  will  succeed. 
Of  language  based  upon  weighty  authority,  seven-tenths. 
But  language  which  flows  constantly  over,  as  from  a  full 
goblet,  is  in  accord  with  God.  When  language  is  put 
into  other  people’s  mouths,  outside  support  is  sought, 
just  as  a  father  does  not  negotiate  his  son’s  marriage,  for 
any  praise  he  could  bestow  would  not  have  the  same 
value  as  praise  by  an  outsider.  Thus  the  fault  is  not 
mine,  but  that  of  others,  who  would  not  believe  me  as  the 
original  speaker.”  Again,  a  story  of  China  comes  back  to 
me,  told  by  the  same  writer,  who  lived  before  our  purer 
era,  and  who  was,  as  a  Japanese  friend  remarks,  a  strate¬ 
gist  in  thought,  fond  of  side  attacks,  of  presenting  some 
point  apparently  anecdotic  and  unimportant,  which,  once 
listened  to,  turns  the  truthful  mind  into  channels  of  fresh 
inquiry.  The  anecdote  is  old,  told  by  the  old  writer  many 
centuries  before  Christ,  and  before  any  reflections  about 
art  troubled  our  barbarian  minds. 

It  is  about  a  court  architect  who  flourished  in  celebrity 
some  twenty-seven  centuries  ago,  and  who  answered  ad¬ 
miring  queries  as  to  how  he  did  such  wonderful  things. 
“There  is  nothing  supernatural  about  it,”  he  said.  “I 
first  free  my  mind  and  preserve  my  vitality — -my  depen¬ 
dence  upon  God.  Then,  after  a  few  days,  the  question  of 


how  much  money  I  shall  make  disappears ;  a  few  more 
days,  and  I  forget  fame  and  the  court  whose  architect  I 
am;  another  day  or  so,  and  I  think  only  of  THE  THING 
ITSELF.  Then  I  am  ready  to  go  into  the  forest  ” —  the  ar¬ 
chitect  and  the  carpenter  were  one  then  —  “  whose  wood 
must  contain  the  form  I  shall  seek.  As  you  see,  there  is 
nothing  supernatural  about  it.” 

Twenty-seven  centuries  ago  the  formula  of  all  good 
work  was  the  same  as  it  has  been  since.  This  looking 
for  “  the  thing  itself,”  not  for  the  formula  to  control  it, 
enabled  men  who  were  great  and  men  who  were  little,  far 
down  toward  us,  far  down  into  the  times  of  the  Renais¬ 
sance  (until  pedantry  and  night  covered  human  freedom 
and  integrity),  to  be  painters  or  poets,  sculptors  or  archi¬ 
tects,  as  the  occasion  required,  to  the  astonishment  of  our 
narrowed,  specialized  vision  of  the  last  two  hundred  years. 

Again,  if  I  have  not  put  it  clearly  enough  in  this  story 
of  the  far  East,  let  me  add  another,  which  includes  the 
meaning  of  the  first.  You  will  forgive  it  in  honor  of  the 
genius  loci ,  for  these  writings  of  the  Chinese  philosophers 
form  a  staple  of  conversation  and  discussion  in  social 
gatherings  of  cultivated  people  here.  The  story  is  of  the 
greatest  of  Chinese  rulers,  the  “  Yellow  Emperor  ”  of  some 
forty-seven  centuries  ago.  He  was  in  pursuit  of  that  law 
of  things,  that  sufficient  ideal  which  is  called  “  Tao  ”  (“  the 
Way  ”),  and  he  sought  it  in  the  wilds  beyond  the  world 
known  of  China,  in  the  fabulous  mountains  of  Chu-tzu. 
He  was  accompanied  by  Ch’ang  Yu  and  Chang  Jo,  and 
others  of  whom  I  know  nothing;  and  Fang  Ming,  of 
whom  I  know  nothing  also,  was  their  charioteer.  When 
they  had  reached  the  outside  wilderness  these  seven  sages 
lost  their  way.  By  and  by  they  fell  in  with  a  boy  who 
was  tending  horses,  and  they  asked  him  if  he  knew  the 
Chu-tzu  Mountains.  “I  do,”  said  the  boy.  “And  can 
you  tell  us,”  said  the  sages,  “where  Tao,  the  law,  abides?” 
“  I  can,”  replied  the  boy.  “  This  is  strange,”  said  the 

”5 


Yellow  Emperor.  “Pray  tell  me  how  would  you  govern 
the  empire  ?  ” 

“I  should  govern  the  empire,”  replied  the  boy,  “in  the 
same  way  that  I  tend  my  horses.  What  else  should  I 
do  ?  When  I  was  a  little  boy  and  lived  within  the  points 
of  the  compass  my  eyes  grew  dim.  An  old  man  advised 
me  to  visit  the  wilderness  outside  of  the  world.  My  sight 
is  now  better,  and  I  continue  to  dwell  outside  of  the  points 
of  the  compass.  I  should  govern  the  empire  in  the  same 
way.  What  else  should  I  do  ?  ” 

Said  the  Yellow  Emperor,  “  Government  is  not  your 
trade,  but  I  should  be  glad  to  learn  what  you  would  do.” 
The  boy  refused  to  answer,  but  being  urged  again,  said  : 
“  What  difference  is  there  between  governing  the  empire 
and  looking  after  horses?  See  that  no  harm  comes  to 
the  horses;  that  is  all.” 

Thereupon  the  emperor  prostrated  himself  before  the 
boy;  and  calling  him  divine  teacher,  took  his  leave. 

I  am  writing  these  vagaries  by  the  sound  of  the  water¬ 
fall  in  our  garden  ;  half  of  the  aviados  are  closed ;  the  pa¬ 
per  screens  near  me  I  have  left  open,  and  the  moths  and 
insects  of  the  night  flutter  around  my  lamp  in  orbits  as 
uncertain  as  the  direction  of  my  thoughts.  I  have  given 
up  my  drawing ;  it  is  too  hot  to  work.  And  I  have  al¬ 
ready  tired  myself  with  looking  over  prints  and  designs. 
Among  them  there  is  a  sketch  by  Hokusai  which  reminds 
me  of  the  way  in  which  my  mind  bestrides  stray  fancies 
that  float  past.  The  picture  is  that  of  Tekkai  (the  beg¬ 
gar),  the  Sennin  exhaling  his  spiritual  essence  in  a  sha¬ 
dowy  form,  which  shadow  itself  often  rides  away  upon 
the  spirit  horse  that  Chokwaro  or  Tsuga  evokes  occasion¬ 
ally  from  his  traveling-gourd. 

To-day  we  talked  of  the  legends  of  these  Rishi  or  Sen¬ 
nin,  whose  pictures  so  often  come  up  in  the  works  of 
Japanese  artists. 


Rishi  or  Sennin  are  beings  who  enjoy  rest, —  that  is  to 
say,  are  exempt  from  transmigration, — -often  in  the  soli¬ 
tude  of  mountains  for  thousands  of  years,  after  which  de¬ 
lay  they  again  enter  the  circle  of  change.  If  they  are 
merely  human,  as  many  of  them  are,  they  have  obtained 
this  charm  of  immortality,  which  forms  an  important  point 
in  the  superstitious  beliefs  and  practices  of  modern  Tao¬ 
ism.  These  appear  to  have  no  hold  in  Japan,  as  they 
have  in  China,  but  these  personages,  evolutions  of  Taoist 
thought,  live  here  at  least  in  legend  and  in  art. 

The  original  mysticism  from  which  they  sprung  is  full 
of  beauty  and  of  power.  General  Tcheng-ki-tong  has 
recently  stated  it  well,  when  he  says  that  Lao  Tzu,  its 
great  antique  propounder,  speaks  with  the  tone  of  a 
prophet.  He  neither  preached  nor  discussed,  yet  those 
who  went  to  him  empty  departed  full.  He  taught  the 
doctrine  which  does  not  find  expression  in  words,  the 
doctrine  of  Tao,  or  the  Way  —  a  doctrine  that  becomes 
untrue  and  unprofitable  when  placed  in  set  forms  and 
bound  in  by  pedantry,  but  which  allows  teaching  by  par¬ 
ables  and  side  glimpses  .and  innuendoes  as  long  as  they 
are  illuminated  by  that  light  which  exists  in  the  natural 
heart  of  man.  And  I,  too,  am  pleased  to  let  myself  be 
guided  by  this  light.  After  many  years  of  wilful  energy, 
of  forced  battle  that  I  have  not  shunned,  I  like  to  try  the 
freshness  of  the  springs,  to  see  if  new  impressions  come  as 
they  once  did  in  childhood.  With  you  I  am  safe  in  stat¬ 
ing  what  has  come  to  me  from  outside.  It  has  come; 
hence  it  is  true :  I  did  not  make  it.  I  can  say  with  the 
Shadow,  personified  by  my  expounder  of  the  Way,1  that 

1  Premare’s  “Notitia  Linguae  Sinicae,”  “  4um  exemplum.  Sic  inducit 
Tchouang-tsee  umbram  loquentem  :  Ego  quidem  existo,  sed  nescio  qua  rati- 
one.  Ego  sum  veluti  cicadarum  tunicse  et  Serpentis  spolia,”  etc.  If  what  I 
have  written  is  ever  seen  by  H.  B.  M.’s  consul  at  Tamsui,  he  will  perceive 
my  present  indebtedness  to  his  most  admirable  translations. 


when  the  light  of  the  fire  or  the  sun  appears,  then  I  come 
forth  ;  when  the  night  comes,  I  lie  still :  I  wait  indeed, 
even  as  they  wait.  They  come  and  I  come,  they  go  and 
I  go  too.  The  shade  waits  for  the  body  and  for  the  light 
to  appear,  and  all  things  which  rise  and  wait  wait  upon 
the  Lord,  who  alone  waits  for  nothing,  needs  nothing,  and 
without  whom  things  can  neither  rise  nor  set.  The  radi¬ 
ance  of  the  landscape  illuminates  my  room  ;  the  land¬ 
scape  does  not  come  within.  I  have  become  as  a  blank 
to  be  filled.  I  employ  my  mind  as  a  mirror;  it  grasps 
nothing,  it  refuses  nothing;  it  receives,  but  does  not  keep. 
And  thus  I  can  triumph  over  things  without  injury  to 
myself — I  am  safe  in  Tao. 


i  is 


JAPANESE  ARCHITECTURE 


Nikko,  August  2. 

I  FEAR  that  of  all  my  description  the  refrain  of  the 
words  gold  and  bronze  will  be  all  that  you  will  retain. 
How  can  I  have  any  confidence  in  my  account  of  any¬ 
thing  so  alien,  whose  analysis  involves  the  necessary 
misuse  of  our  terms,  based  upon  another  past  in  art?  — 
for  words  in  such  cases  are  only  explanations  or  easy 
mnemonics  of  a  previous  sight.  But  soon  I  shall  have 
photographs  to  send,  and  if  I  can  summon  courage  for 
work,  in  this  extreme  heat  and  moisture,  I  shall  make 
some  drawings.  But  again,  these  would  not  give  the 
essential  reasons  for  things  being  as  they  are ;  and  what¬ 
ever  strange  beauties  would  be  noted,  they  might  appear 
to  have  happened,  if  I  may  so  say,  and  not  to  have  grown 
of  necessity.  It  is  so  difficult  for  our  average  way  of 
accepting  things  to  think  of  what  is  called  architecture 
without  expecting  structures  of  stone  —  something  solid 
and  evidently  time-defying. 

And  yet,  if  architecture  represents  the  needs  of  living 
of  a  people,  the  differences  that  we  see  here  will  have  the 
same  reasonableness  that  other  devices  show  elsewhere. 
The  extreme  heat,  the  sudden  torrents  of  rain,  will  ex¬ 
plain  the  far- projecting  and  curved  roofs,  the  galleries 
and  verandas,  the  arrangements  for  opening  or  closing 
the  sides  of  buildings  by  sliding  screens,  which  allow  an 
adjustment  to  the  heat  or  the  damp.  But  weightier 
reasons  than  all  these  must  have  directed  in  the  construc¬ 
tion  of  such  great  buildings  as  the  temples,  and  I  think 


that,  putting  aside  important  race  influences,  these  suffi¬ 
cient  reasons  will  be  found  in  the  volcanic  nature  of 
Japan  and  its  frequent  earthquakes.  Whatever  was  to 
be  built  must  have  had  to  meet  these  difficult  problems: 
how  successfully  in  the  past  is  shown  by  a  persistence  of 
their  buildings  which  to  us  seems  extraordinary,  for 
many  of  them  are  lasting  yet  in  integrity  for  now  over  a 
thousand  years. 

I  speak  of  the  influences  of  race,  because  it  is  evident 
that  very  many  traditions,  prejudices,  and  symbolic  mean¬ 
ings  are  built  into  these  forms,  and  that  many  of  them 
must  have  come  through  the  teachings  of  China.  Every¬ 
where  the  higher  architecture,  embodied  in  shrines  and 
temples,  is  based  on  some  ideal  needs,  and  not  essentially 
upon  necessities;  is,  in  fact,  a  record  or  expression  of  a 
religious  idea  or  mystery.  In  this  case  I  am  too  pro¬ 
foundly  ignorant,  as  most  of  us  are,  to  work  out  origins; 
but  my  mind  feels  the  suggestion  of  an  indefinite  past, 
that  once  had  meanings  and  teachings,  just  as  my  eye 
recognizes  in  the  shape  of  the  massive  temples  the  image 
of  a  sacred  box,  or  ark,  once  to  be  carried  from  place  to 
place.  There  is,  perhaps,  in  this  direction  a  line  of  study 
for  the  men  to  come. 

Like  all  true  art,  the  architecture  of  Japan  has  found 
in  the  necessities  imposed  upon  it  the  motives  for  realiz¬ 
ing  beauty,  and  has  adorned  the  means  by  which  it  has 
conquered  the  difficulties  to  be  surmounted.  Hence  no 
foundations,  which  would  compromise  the  super-imposed 
building  by  making  it  participate  in  the  shock  given  to 
its  base.  Hence  solid  pedestals,  if  I  may  so  call  them,  or 
great  bases,  upon  which  are  placed  only,  not  built  in,  the 
posts  which  support  the  edifice,  leaving  a  space  between 
this  base  and  the  horizontal  beams  or  floors  of  the  build¬ 
ing.  The  building  is  thus  rendered  elastic,  and  resumes 
its  place  after  the  trembling  of  the  earthquake,  and  the 


120 


waters  of  bad  weather  can  escape  without  flooding  any 
foundations. 

The  great,  heavy,  curved  roof,  far  overhanging,  weighs 
down  this  structure,  and  keeps  it  straight.  An  appar¬ 
ently  unreasonable  quantity  of  adjusted  timber  and  beams 
supports  the  ceiling  and  the  roof.  Complicated,  tremen¬ 
dous  corbelings,  brackets  grooved  and  dovetailed,  fill  the 
cornices  as  with  a  network;  but  all  these  play  an  im¬ 
portant  practical  part,  and  keep  the  whole  construction 
elastic,  as  their  many  small  divisions  spread  the  shock. 

Still  more,  in  such  a  building  as  the  charming  pagoda 
at  Iyeyasu’s  shrine,  which  is  full  one  hundred  feet  high, 
slight-looking  and  lithe,  the  great  beam  or  mast  which 
makes  its  center  does  not  support  from  the  base,  but  is 
cut  off  at  the  foundation;  and  hence  it  acts  as  a  sort  of 
pendulum,  its  great  weight  below  retarding  the  move¬ 
ment  above  when  the  earthquake  comes. 

I  have  heard  the  whisper  of  a  legend  saying  that  the 
architect  who  devised  this,  to  correct  the  errors  of  a  rival 
and  partner,  was  poisoned  in  due  time,  in  jealous  return. 
For  those  were  happy  times  when  backbiting  among 
artists  took  the  more  manly  form  of  poisoning. 

Now  besides  all  this,  which  gives  only  the  reason  for 
the  make  of  certain  parts  which  together  form  the  unity 
of  a  single  building,  there  are  other  principles  before  us. 
The  relation  of  man  to  nature,  so  peculiarly  made  out  in 
the  Japanese  beliefs,  is  made  significant,  symbolized,  or 
typified  through  the  manner  in  which  these  buildings  are 
disposed.  A  temple  is  not  a  single  unity,  as  with  us,  its 
own  beginning  and  end.  A  temple  is  an  arrangement 
of  shrines  and  buildings  meaningly  placed,  often,  as  here, 
in  mountains  —  a  word  synonymous  with  temples;  each 
shrine  a  statement  of  some  divine  attribute,  and  all  these 
buildings  spread  with  infinite  art  over  large  spaces,  open, 
or  inclosed  by  trees  and  rocks.  The  buildings  are  but 


12  I 


parts  of  a  whole.  They  are  enveloped  by  nature,  the 
principle  and  the  adornment  of  the  subtle  or  mysterious 
meaning  which  links  them  all  together. 

Besides  all  this  is  the  religious  symbolism  underlying 
or  accompanying  all,  as  once  with  us,  of  which  I  know  too 
little  to  speak,  but  which  can  be  felt  and  occasionally  de¬ 
tected  because  of  many  repetitions.  But  this  would  carry 
me  beyond  my  limits;  and,  indeed,  we  find  it  very  difficult 
to  obtain  any  more  information  from  our  instructors, 
whether  they  do  not  know  securely,  or  whether  they  re¬ 
serve  it  for  better  minds  and  worthier  apprehensions.  Nor 
do  I  object  to  this  Oriental  secrecy  or  mystery,  as  it  adds 
the  charm  of  the  veil,  which  is  often  needed. 

And  I  should  wish  that  soon  some  one  might  under¬ 
take  to  make  out  in  full  the  harmony  of  proportions  which 
has  presided  over  these  buildings.  It  is  evident  that  a 
delicate  and  probably  minute  system  of  relations,  under 
the  appearance  of  fantasy,  produces  here  the  sense  of 
unity  that  alone  makes  one  secure  of  permanent  enjoy¬ 
ment.  My  information  on  the  subject  is  fragmentary :  I 
know  that  the  elegant  columns  are  in  a  set  relation  to  the 
openings  of  the  temple;  that  the  shape  of  these  same  col¬ 
umns  is  in  another  relation  to  their  exquisite  details  ;  that 
the  rafters  play  an  important  part,  determining  the  first 
departure.  I  have  seen  carpenter’s  drawings,  with  man¬ 
ners  of  setting  out  work  and  measurements,  and  I  feel 
that  there  is  only  a  study  to  carry  out. 

Nor  is  my  wish  mere  curiosity,  or  the  interest  of  the 
antiquarian.  What  we  need  to-day  is  belief  and  confi¬ 
dence  in  similar  methods,  without  which  there  is  nothing 
for  ourselves  but  a  haphazard  success  ;  no  connection  with 
the  eternal  and  inevitable  past,  and  none  with  a  future, 
which  may  change  our  materials,  but  will  never  change 
our  human  need  for  harmony  and  order. 

You  have  heard  of  the  little  gardens,  and  of  their  ex- 


122 


quisite  details,  in  which  the  Japanese  makes  an  epitome 
of  nature,  arranged  as  if  for  one  of  his  microscopic  jewels 
of  metals,  ivory,  or  lacquer. 

Here  in  our  own  garden  there  would  seem  no  call  for 
an  artificial  nature.  The  mountain  slope  on  which  we  live 
must  have  always  been  beautiful  of  itself;  but  for  all  that, 
our  garden — -that  is  to  say,  the  space  about  our  landlord’s 
house  and  our  own  —  has  been  treated  with  extreme  care. 
Our  inclosure  is  framed  towards  the  great  temple  groves, 
and  the  great  mountains  behind  them,  by  a  high  wall  of 
rock,  over  which,  at  a  corner  edged  with  moss,  rolls  a 
torrent,  making  a  waterfall  that  breaks  three  times.  The 
pool  below,  edged  with  iris  that  grow  in  the  garden  sand, 
is  crossed  by  a  bridge  of  three  big  flat  stones,  and  empties 
secretly  away.  On  each  side  of  the  fall,  planted  in  the 
rock  wall,  stands  a  thick-set  paulownia,  with  great  steady 
leaves,  and  bending  towards  it  a  willow,  whose  branches 
drop  far  below  itself  and  swing  perpetually  in  the  draught 
of  the  waterfall.  Bunches  of  pink  azalea  grow  in  the  hol¬ 
lows  of  the  rocks,  and  their  reflections  redden  the  eddies 
of  the  pool.  Steps  which  seem  natural  lead  up  the  wall 
of  rock ;  old  pines  grow  against  it,  and  our  feet  pass 
through  their  uppermost  branches.  On  the  top  is  planted 
a  monumental  stone,  and  from  there  a  little  path  runs 
along,  leading  nowhere  nowadays,  as  far  as  I  can  make 
out.  I  am  right  in  calling  this  mass  of  rock,  which  is  a 
spur  of  the  mountain’s  slope,  a  wall ;  for  I  look  down  from 
its  top  to  the  next  inclosure  far  below,  now  overgrown  and 
wild.  What  is  natural  and  what  was  made  by  man  has 
become  so  blended  together,  or  has  always  been  so,  that  I 
can  choose  to  look  at  it  as  my  mood  may  be,  and  feel  the 
repose  of  nature  or  enjoy  the  disposing  choice  of  art. 

Where  the  little  bridge  crosses  over,  and  where  mossy 
rocks  dip  down  a  little  to  allow  a  passage,  edged  by  a 
maple  and  a  pine,  I  look  over  across  the  hidden  road  to  a 

123 


deserted  yas/iiki,  with  one  blasted  tree,  all  overgrown  with 
green  and  melting  into  distances  of  trees  which,  tier  be¬ 
hind  tier,  reach  to  a  little  conical  hill,  that  is  divided  and 
subdivided  by  sheets  of  mist  at  every  change  of  heat  and 
damp,  so  that  I  feel  half  as  if  I  knew  its  forms  perfectly  — 
half  as  if  I  could  never  get  them  all  by  heart. 

In  the  sand  of  our  little  garden  are  set  out  clumps  of 
flowers,  chrysanthemum  mostly,  and  occasionally  iris  and 
azalea  ;  and  the  two  houses  make  its  other  two  sides.  The 
priest’s  house,  an  old  one,  with  large  thatched  roof  pro¬ 
jecting  in  front  and  supported  there  by  posts  covered  with 
creepers,  is  nearer  the  water.  I  see  the  little  priest  with 
his  young  neophyte  curled  on  the  mats  in  the  big  front 
room  whose  whole  face  is  open  ;  while  in  a  break,  or  wing, 
is  the  opening  to  the  practical  housekeeper  side  of  the 
dwelling. 

Our  own  house,  which  faces  south  like  the  priest’s, 
completes  the  square,  as  I  said.  It  is  edged  on  the  out¬ 
side  by  a  small  plantation  of  trees  with  no  character,  that 
stretch  away  to  the  back  road  and  to  a  wall  terracing  a 
higher  ground  behind.  There  a  wide  space  overgrown 
with  bushes  and  herbage,  that  cover  former  care  and 
beauty,  spreads  out  indefinitely  toward  conical  hills  hot 
in  the  sun,  behind  which  rises  the  great  volcanic  slope  of 
Nio-ho.  A  little  temple  shrine,  red,  white,  and  gold, 
stands  in  this  heat  of  sunlight  and  makes  cooler  yet  the 
violets  and  tender  greens  of  the  great  slopes.  This  is  to 
the  north.  When  I  look  toward  the  west  I  see  broad 
spaces  broken  up  by  trees,  and  the  corner  of  Iyeyasu’s 
temple  wall  half  hidden  by  the  gigantic  cedars,  and  as  I 
write,  late  in  the  afternoon,  the  blue  peak  of  Nan-tai-san 
rounded  off  like  a  globe  by  the  yellow  mist. 

The  garden,  embosomed  in  this  vastness  of  nature, 
feels  small,  as  though  it  were  meant  to  be  so.  Every 
part  is  on  a  small  scale,  and  needs  few  hands  to  keep 

124 


things  in  order.  We  have  a  little  fountain  in  the  middle 
of  the  garden,  which  gives  the  water  for  our  bath,  and 
sends  a  noisy  stream  rolling  through  the  wooden  trough 
of  the  wash-room.  The  fountain  is  made  by  a  bucket 
placed  upon  two  big  stones,  set  in  a  basin,  along  whose 
edge  grow  the  iris,  still  in  bloom.  A  hidden  pipe  fills 
the  bucket,  and  a  long,  green  bamboo  makes  a  conduit 
for  the  water  through  the  wooden  side  of  our  house. 
With  another  bamboo  we  tap  the  water  for  our  bath.  In 
the  early  morning  I  sit  in  the  bath-room  and  paint  this 
little  picture  through  the  open  side,  while  A- — — ,  up¬ 
stairs  in  the  veranda,  is  reading  in  Dante’s  “  Paradiso,” 
and  can  see,  when  he  looks  up,  the  great  temple  roof  of 
the  Buddhist  Mangwanji. 

Occasionally  the  good  lady  who  takes  care  of  our 
priest’s  house  during  his  weeks  of  service  at  the  temple 
of  Iyemitsu  salutes  me  while  at  my  bath,  for  the  heating 
of  which  her  servant  has  supplied  the  charcoal.  She  is 
already  dressed  for  the  day,  and  in  her  black  silk  robe 
walks  across  the  garden  to  dip  her  toothbrush  in  the 
running  water  of  the  cascade.  Then  in  a  desultory  way 
she  trims  the  plants  and  breaks  off  dead  leaves,  and  later 
the  gardener  appears  and  attends  to  one  thing  after 
another,  even  climbing  up  into  the  old  pine  tree,  taking 
care  of  it  as  he  does  of  the  sweet-peas ;  and  I  recall  the 
Japanese  gardener  whom  I  knew  at  our  Exposition  of 
1876,  as  I  saw  him  for  the  last  time,  stretched  on  the 
ground,  fanning  the  opening  leaves  of  some  plant  that 
gave  him  anxiety. 

Thus  the  Japanese  garden  can  be  made  of  very  slight 
materials,  and  is  occasionally  reduced  to  scarcely  any¬ 
thing,  even  to  a  little  sand  and  a  few  stones  laid  out  ac¬ 
cording  to  a  definite  ideal  of  meaning.  A  reference  to 
nature,  a  recall  of  the  general  principles  of  all  landscapes, 
—  of  a  foreground,  a  distance,  and  a  middle  distance; 


125 


that  is  to  say,  a  little  picture,— is  enough.  When  they 
cannot  deal  with  the  thing  itself— when  they  do,  they 
do  it  consummately  —  they  have  another  ideal  which  is 
not  so  much  the  making  of  a  real  thing  as  the  making  of 
a  picture  of  it.  Hence  the  scale  can  be  diminished,  with¬ 
out  detriment  in  their  eyes,  until  it  becomes  lilliputian 
to  ours.  All  this  I  take  to  be  an  inheritance  from  China, 
modified  toward  simplicity.  I  do  not  know  to  what 
type  our  little  garden  belongs.  For  they  have  in  their 
arrangements  manners  of  expressing  ideas  of  association, 
drawing  them  from  nature  itself,  or  bringing  them  out  by 
references  to  tradition  or  history,  so  that  I  am  told  that 
they  aim  to  express  delicate  meanings  which  a  Western 
imagination  can  hardly  grasp  ;  types,  for  instance,  con¬ 
veying  the  ideas  of  peace  and  chastity,  quiet  old  age, 
connubial  happiness,  and  the  sweetness  of  solitude.  Does 
this  make  you  laugh,  or  does  it  touch  you  —  or  both  ?  I 
wish  I  knew  more  about  it,  for  I  am  sure  that  there  is 
much  to  say. 

I  have  spoken  of  simplicity.  The  domestic  architec¬ 
ture  is  as  simple,  as  transitory,  as  if  it  symbolized  the  life 
of  man.  You  can  see  it  all  in  the  drawings,  in  the  lac¬ 
quers,  and  it  has  recently  been  treated  completely  in  the 
charming  book  of  Professor  Morse.  Within,  the  Japanese 
house  is  simplicity  itself;  all  is  framework,  and  moving 
screens  instead  of  wall.  No  accumulations,  no  bric-a- 
brac  ;  any  lady’s  drawing-room  with  us  will  contain  more 
odds  and  ends  than  all  that  I  have  yet  seen  together  in 
Japan.  The  reserved  place  of  honor,  a  sort  of  niche  in 
the  wall,  the  supposed  seat  of  an  ideal  guest,  has  upon  its 
bench  some  choice  image  on  a  stand,  or  a  vase  with  ele¬ 
gant  disposal  of  flowers  or  plants,  and  above  it  the  hang¬ 
ing  roll  with  drawing  or  inscription.  Perhaps  some  other 
inscription  or  verse,  or  a  few  words  on  a  tablet  upon  some 
cross-beam,  and  perhaps  a  small  folding  screen.  Other- 

126 


wise  all  works  of  art  are  put  aside  in  the  fireproof  store¬ 
house,  to  be  brought  out  on  occasions.  The  woodwork  is 
as  simple  as  it  can  be  —  occasionally,  some  beautiful  join¬ 
ery  ;  always,  when  it  can  be  afforded,  exquisite  workman¬ 
ship  ;  and,  above  all,  exquisite  cleanliness.  For  there  are 
no  beds  —  only  wadded  coverlets  and  the  little  wooden 
pillow,  which  does  not  disturb  the  complicated  feminine 
coiffure  in  the  languors  of  the  night.  No  tables;  food  is 
laid  on  the  cleanly  mats,  in  many  trays  and  dishes.  No 
chairs;  the  same  mats  that  serve  for  bedstead  and  table 
serve  for  seats  with,  perhaps,  a  cushion  added. 

And  this  is  all  the  same  for  all,  from  emperor’s  palace 
to  little  tradesman’s  cottage.  There  is  nothing,  appa¬ 
rently,  but  what  is  necessary,  and  refinement  in  disposing 
of  that.  The  result  is  sometimes  cold  and  bare.  There 
is  the  set  look  of  insisting  upon  an  idea  —  the  idea  of  doing 
with  little :  a  noble  one,  certainly ;  as,  for  instance,  when 
the  emperor’s  palace  at  Kioto  is  adorned  merely  by  the 
highest  care  in  workmanship  and  by  the  names  of  the  art¬ 
ists  who  painted  the  screen  walls— -in  solitary  contradic¬ 
tion  to  the  splendor  and  pomp  of  all  absolute  rulers,  no 
storehouse  for  the  wasted  money  of  the  people,  but  an 
example  of  the  economy  which  should  attend  the  life  of 
the  ruler.  It  is  possible  that  when  I  return  I  shall  feel 
still  more  distaste  for  the  barbarous  accumulations  in  our 
houses,  and  recall  the  far  more  civilized  emptiness  per¬ 
sisted  in  by  the  more  esthetic  race. 


127 


BRIC-A-BRAC 


Nikko,  August  12. 

I  NEED  not  tell  you  that  the  pervading  manner  of 
spending  time  and  money  is  always  within  our  reach. 
We  do  not  go  after  the  owner  and  seller  of  bric-a-brac; 
he  comes  to  us. 

Coming  from  afar, —  from  Tokio,  a  hundred  miles  away, 
and  from  Ozaka,  four  times  that  distance, —  bales  of 
merchandise  are  unloaded  at  our  door,  or  at  our  friends’ 
for  us.  Patient  pack-horses  stand  in  the  inclosure  of 
the  yards  ;  big  parcels,  and  piles  of  boxes  and  bundles, 
encumber  the  verandas.  Weary  hours,  beginning  with 
excitement  and  ending  with  gentle  disappointment,  are 
spent  in  indecision  of  judgment  and  uncertainty  of  pur¬ 
chase.  But  there  remains  always  at  the  bottom  of  the 
boxes  a  delusive  hope,  and  some  treasure  may  perhaps 
reward  our  patience. 

And  then,  besides  occasional  beauties  in  color  or  design, 
there  is  something  in  looking  over  all  these  debris  of  civil¬ 
ization  in  their  own  home ;  and  odds  and  ends,  having 
not  much  more  excuse  for  themselves  than  that  they 
remain,  help  to  explain  either  the  art  or  the  habits  of 
the  country,  or  its  history,  or  the  nature  we  see  about  us. 
We  have  found  almost  nothing  among  the  things  brought 
us  which  can  rank  as  work  of  high  art,  and  I  am  afraid 
that  we  must  be  looked  down  upon  by  our  friends  for 
purchases  which  have  no  excuse  in  any  lofty  esthetic  code. 
But  they  have  the  charm  of  being  there,  and  of  explain¬ 
ing,  and  in  another  way  of  teaching,  even  when  they  are 
bad,  and  often  because  they  are  bad.  Because  their  very 

128 


poverty  helps  to  a  classification  and  to  an  analysis  of  the 
means  through  which  the  artist  worked,  and  to  a  know¬ 
ledge  of  the  prevalent  subjects  and  arrangements  which 
he  found  ready  to  his  hand,  bequeathed  to  him  by  an 
earlier  and  nobler  choice. 

From  all  this  poor  stuff  exhales  the  faded  scent  of  a 
greater  art  and  refinement,  which  is  now  invisible,  or  de¬ 
stroyed,  or  subsisting  only  in  fragments,  difficult  of  access, 
or  which  are  far  away.  And  there  is  a  peculiar  unity  in 
the  arts  of  the  extreme  East.  We  must  remember  that 
this  very  sensitive  Japanese  race  has  developed  in  its  art, 
as  in  everything,  without  being  subjected  to  the  many 
direct  and  contradictory  influences  which  have  made  our 
Western  art  and  civilization.  There  have  been  here, 
within  historic  times,  no  vast  invasions  of  alien  races, 
bringing  other  ways  for  everything  in  thought  and  in  life, 
and  obliging  an  already  complex  civilization  to  be  begun 
over  and  over  again  on  readjusted  bases  ;  no  higher  living 
and  advanced  thought  obliged  to  yield  for  times  and  half 
times,  until  the  grosser  flames  of  energy  could  be  purified  ; 
no  dethronement,  within  society  tried  by  every  other  cal¬ 
amity,  of  the  old  primeval  faith.  Instead  of  a  tempest  of 
tastes  and  manners  of  feeling  blowing  from  every  quarter, 
and  in  which  the  cruder  dislikes  have  held  for  centuries 
the  balance  against  cultured  likings  and  devotion,  Japan 
has  been  carried  on  in  one  current,  in  which  have  mingled, 
so  as  to  blend,  the  steady  influences  of  the  two  most  con¬ 
servative  civilizations  of  India  and  of  China. 

All  here  to-day,  and  for  far  back,  is  interwoven  with 
Chinese  thought,  breaks  through  it,  returns  to  it,  runs 
alongside  of  it.  And  through  Buddhism,  its  fervor,  its 
capacity  for  taking  up  in  its  course  boulders  of  other 
creeds  or  habits,  a  something  different,  higher  in  aspir¬ 
ation  and  in  form,  has  lived  with  everything  else  and 
affected  all. 


9 


129 


This  impressionable  race  found,  contrasting  with  and 
supporting  its  nature,  secure,  steady,  undeviating  guides, 
so  that  these  foreign  ideals  have  persisted  here  with  a 
transplanted  life.  In  fact,  it  is  possible  to  look  to  Japan 
to  find  something  of  what  ancient  China  was.  So  much  of 
what  has  here  been  done,  as  their  language  does  to-day, 
saves  for  us  a  hint  or  a  reflection  of  the  great  Chinese 
ages,  when  China  had  not  yet  been  conquered  by  the 
foreigner,  and  when  energies  apparently  unknown  to  the 
China  of  to-day  flourished  with  the  strength  of  youth. 
The  art  and  literature  of  Japan,  therefore,  represent  in 
great  part  the  Chinese  prototype  —  an  original  which  for 
us  has  practically  disappeared.  We  cannot  easily  know 
what  arrangements  and  compositions,  what  free  interpre¬ 
tations  of  the  world,  or  severe  imitations  of  nature,  the 
old  Chinese  adopted,  but  they  are  reflected  or  continued 
in  the  styles  and  subjects  and  treatments  of  what  we  call 
Japanese.  The  limits  and  definitions  of  each  may  be  clear 
to  the  Japanese  critic,  but  to  our  casual  Western  eye  they 
merge  or  derive  one  from  the  other,  like  some  little-known 
streams  which  make  one  river. 

Almost  all  the  arrangements  that  we  know  so  well  on 
Japanese  drawings,  screens,  bronzes,  lacquers,  ivories,  etc., 
have  Chinese  prototypes.  And  all  this  is  over  and  above 
the  constant  use  of  Chinese  legend,  and  story,  and  phil¬ 
osophy,  which  are  to  Japan  what  Greece  and  Rome  used 
to  be  to  us  —  a  storehouse  of  associated  meanings  and 
examples. 

Would  it  amuse  you  if  I  made  out  some  of  the  types 
that  you  see  ? 

Here  are  the  pine-tree  and  the  stork,  emblems  of  long 
life ;  or  the  bamboo  and  the  sparrow,  which  typify  the 
mildness  and  gentleness  of  nature. 

The  willow  waves  in  the  wind  to  and  fro,  and  the  swal¬ 
lows  swing  forth  and  back  again. 


i3o 


The  names  of  Color  and  of  Love  are  joined  by  a  sim¬ 
ilarity  of  sound,  and  probably  by  a  mystic  association : 
and  so  you  will  see  upon  the  screens  that  the  leaves  of 
the  maple  turn  red  in  autumn,  when  the  stag  calls  the 
doe.  The  cherry-blossom’s  splendor  is  for  show,  like  the 
pheasant’s  plumage. 

Long  centuries  ago  the  plum  became  the  poet’s  tree, 
because  of  an  early  poet’s  verses ;  and  the  nightingale, 
also  a  singer  and  a  poet,  is  associated  with  the  tree. 

The  tiger  hiding  in  the  jungle  has  a  background  of 
bamboo,  as  the  oxen  have  the  peach-tree,  from  an  old 
Chinese  sentence:  “Turn  the  horse  loose  on  the  flower- 
covered  mountain,  and  the  ox  into  the  orchard  of  peaches.” 

The  cock  stands  on  the  unused  war-drum,  which  is  a 
Chinese  symbol  of  good  government,  the  aim  of  which  is 
peace. 

Or,  again,  legends  and  stories  are  referred  to. 

The  cuckoo  flies  across  the  crescent  of  the  moon,  and 
the  story  of  Yorimasa  is  called  up,  who  slew  with  bow 
and  arrow  the  mysterious  monster  that  had  tormented 
the  life  of  the  Mikado  Narihito.  I  despair  of  telling  the 
story  without  great  waste  of  words,  and  I  half- regret 
having  chosen  the  example ;  but,  perhaps,  it  is  all  the 
more  Japanese  for  its  complication. 

You  must  know  that  the  Mikado  — -this  was  about  the 
year  1153 — had  been  ill  night  after  night  with  terrible 
nightmares,  to  the  confusion  of  his  numerous  doctors  ; 
and  that  his  many  feminine  attendants  had  done  all  they 
could  to  soothe  him,  to  no  avail.  Every  night,  at  the  hour 
of  the  Bull  (two  A.  M.,  an  hour  when  evil  power  is  great), 
the  dovecote  was  fluttered  by  this  fearful  visitation.  But, 
at  length,  either  these  gentle  dames  or  other  watchers 
noticed  that  before  each  access  a  cloud  had  drifted  over 
the  palace,  and  that,  resting  just  above  the  sleeping- 
apartments,  two  lights  shone  out  from  the  dark  mass. 

131 


Then  the  bells  of  the  city  temples  sounded  the  hour  of 
the  Bull.  The  gentlemen  of  the  palace  and  the  imperial 
guards  were  set  on  watch,  the  priests  prayed  to  ward  off 
the  evil  influence;  but  uselessly.  Then  Yorimasa  —  a 
brave  warrior,  a  famous  archer,  one  of  the  guards  —  was 
allowed,  or  ordered,  to  try  to  destroy  the  evil  thing,  what¬ 
ever  it  might  be.  He,  with  a  follower,  watched  nightly 
until  the  dark  cloud  and  the  shining  orbs  were  near,  when 
the  great  bow  of  Yorimasa  was  discharged,  and  a  strange 
and  wonderful  beast  fell  blinded  to  the  ground. 

The  sword  of  Yorimasa  despatched  it  in  nine  separate 
blows,  and  the  thing, —  said  to  have  had  something  of  the 
monkey,  the  tiger,  and  the  serpent, — was  burned  to  ashes. 
For  this  Yorimasa  was  given  the  girl  he  loved,  the  Lady 
Iris-flower  (who,  therefore,  had  not  watched  in  vain),  and 
with  her  the  celebrated  sword  called  Shishino-o  (King  of 
Wild  Boars).  Now  the  imperial  deputy,  as  he  presented 
this  sword  to  Yorimasa,  tried  him  with  a  punning  verse, 
while  a  cuckoo  sang.  This  is  what  the  verse  said : 

“  The  cuckoo  above  the  clouds,  how  does  it  mount  ?  ” 
But  it  meant,  “  Like  the  cuckoo  to  soar  so  high,  how  is  it 
so?”  To  which  Yorimasa  answered,  filling  in  the  neces¬ 
sary  couplet,  “The  waning  moon  sets  not  at  will,”  which 
might  also  mean,  in  modest  disclaimer  of  ambitious  effort, 
“  Only  my  bow  I  bent;  that  alone  sent  the  shaft.”  And 
so  this  moon  stands  in  the  picture,  as  in  the  verses,  for 
the  bent  bow  of  Yorimasa. 

It  is  a  shorter  story,  that  which  makes  the  allusion  in 
the  type  of  the  chrysanthemum  and  the  fox.  It  is  a  var¬ 
iation  of  the  perpetual  story.  The  prince  royal  of  India 
had  a  lovely  mistress,  who  had  bewitched  him,  and  who 
fell  asleep  one  day  in  .a  bed  of  chrysanthemums,  where 
her  lover  shot  at  and  wounded  a  fox  in  the  forehead.  The 
bleeding  temple  of  the  girl  discovered  the  evil  animal  she 
really  was.  For  the  fox,  as  in  China,  is  in  Japan  a  wicked 


132 


animal,  capable  of  everything  in  the  way  of  transformation 
and  suggestion. 

There  are  endless  stories  about  him,  and  the  belief  or 

superstition  is  still  very  strong.  O -  was  talking  to  us 

lately  about  the  scorcerers  and  spiritual  mediums  and  for¬ 
tune-tellers,  and,  as  an  explanation  of  the  power  of  some 
medium,  told  us  that  he  claimed  to  have  in  his  service 
tame  foxes.  Only,  when  I  asked  where  they  might  be 
lodged  in  the  little  city  house,  he  explained  that  they 
were  not  living  in  the  body,  and  therefore  cumbersome, 
but  were  the  spirits  of  foxes,  thus  subservient,  and  able  to 
penetrate  everywhere  and  report. 

The  badger  also  is  a  misleading  creature,  and  the  cat  is 
considered  uncertain. 

Or  take  the  way  in  which  Hokusai  refers  to  ancient 
story  when,  at  the  end  of  one  of  his  books,  he  makes  a 
picture  of  the  devoted  knight  Kojima  Takanori  clad  in 
armor,  covered  with  the  peasant’s  rain-cloak  ;  and  he  is 
writing  on  the  trunk  of  the  cherry-tree  the  message  of 
warning  for  his  master,  the  Emperor  Go-Daigo  Tenno. 
But  instead  of  the  old  verse,  Hokusai  has  put :  “  In  the 
sixth  year  of  the  era  Tempo,  in  the  month  of  April,  my 
seventy-sixth  year,  this  is  written  by  me,  formerly  by 
name  Hokusai,  but  now  more  correctly  known  as  ‘  The 
Old  Man  gone  Mad  for  Painting.’  ” 

Here  I  have  been  wandering  into  Japan,  while  my 
theme  was  rather  the  persistence  of  Chinese  subjects,  or 
of  subjects  connected  with  China,  the  list  of  which  would 
be  endless,  from  Shoki,  the  devil-killer,  hunting  his  prey 
of  imps  over  sword-guards  and  round  the  corners  of 
boxes,  to  pictures  of  aphorisms,  such  as  this  saying  of 
Confucius,  of  which  I  found  a  drawing  yesterday  :  “Avoid 
even  the  appearance  of  evil ;  do  not  stop  to  tie  your  shoes 
in  the  melon-patch  of  an  enemy.’’  And  so  these  innu¬ 
merable  subjects  are  common  property,  and  serve  as  a 

9* 


133 


field  for  the  artist  to  try  to  be  himself,  to  bring  out  the 
story  or  part  of  it,  or  his  way  of  looking  at  it,  or  its  deco¬ 
rative  capacity,  or  any  way  of  anchoring  the  Japanese 
imagination.  I  cannot  say  that  for  many  of  the  ordinary 
arrangements,  the  most  simple  and  conventional,  one  does 
not  often  suffer  the  boredom  of  repetition,  as  we  do  at 
home,  with  the  eagle  and  the  stars,  and  armorial  bearings, 
and  the  stereotyped  symbolism  of  churches.  But  it  suf¬ 
fices  to  see  the  thing  well  done  again,  to  start  once  more 
into  some  new  enjoyment  of  the  choice  of  subject. 

So  there  can  exist  with  regard  to  these  subjects,  appar¬ 
ently  mere  motives  of  form,  and  partly  because  they  are 
conventional,  a  deeper  convention  or  meaning,  more  or 
less  visible  to  the  artist  when  at  work,  according  to  his 
temperament  or  his  school,  as  in  our  poetry,  where  an 
idea  may  or  may  not  be  overlaid  with  realistic  or  esthetic 
decoration. 

I  reach  out  for  the  first  design  that  my  hand  can  find, 
which  turns  out  to  be  a  drawing  by  Chin-nan-pin.  I  have 
chosen  at  haphazard,  but  the  choice  is  perhaps  all  the 
better.  We  shall  have  no  example  of  a  great  man  to  deal 
with,  but  merely  the  work  of  a  remarkable  Chinaman  who, 
somewhere  in  the  early  eighteenth  century,  happened  to 
come  to  Japan,  or  to  be  born  there,  so  as  to  fit  into  a  cer¬ 
tain  Chinomania  then  prevalent.  The  photograph  that  I 
send  you  is  a  poor  one.  You  can  merely  discern  the  pat¬ 
tern,  or  what  might  be  called  the  masses,  of  the  design. 
A  horse  is  tied  to  a  tree, —  a  horse  of  Japan, —  and  a 
monkey  slides  down  the  trunk  and  clutches  at  the  halter 
that  prevents  escape.  I  need  not  ask  you  to  admire  the 
stealthy  and  yet  confident  step  of  the  ape,  and  the  motions 
and  repugnance  and  fright  of  the  horse.  I  don’t  think 
that  they  could  be  better  given.  Withal,  there  is  a  grav¬ 
ity  of  general  outline  and  appearances,  and  a  pleasantly 
managed  balance  of  the  full  and  empty  spaces.  But  these 


i34 


PAINTING  BY  CHIN-NAN-PIN. 


decorative  points  are  not  those  I  wish  to  refer  to  just  now. 
What  I  wish  to  indicate  now  is  that  this  subject,  which 
might  have  suited  a  Dutchman  for  realism  and  for  its 
choice  of  the  accidental,  will  mean,  if  you  wish  to  see  it, 
the  natural  resistance  and  struggle  of  the  inferior  nature 
against  a  superior  mastery  which  it  does  not  understand, 
and  which  at  first  appears  capricious  and  unreasonable. 
Without  being  quite  certain  of  the  accuracy  of  my  defini¬ 
tion,  I  know  that  the  design  is  based  upon  a  like  con¬ 
vention. 

This  may  not  be  spirituality,  but  how  far  it  is  from 
what  we  call  realism,  and  how  wise  the  acceptance  by  the 
artist  of  a  convention  which  allows  him  to  give  all  his  en¬ 
ergies  to  a  new  interpretation,  through  his  own  study  of 
nature  !  As  with  those  who  have  chosen  distinctly  reli¬ 
gious  subjects,  and  whose  vitality  and  personality  can 
triumph  and  coexist  with  the  absence  of  novelty  in  the 
theme,  so  the  artist  in  more  ordinary  subjects  may  be 
wise  in  keeping  to  themes  which  are  known  to  those 
whom  he  addresses,  and  in  which  they  can  fully  grasp 
and  enjoy  his  success.  These  general  themes  allow  a 
stricter  individuality  in  the  artist  who  uses  them,  when  he 
is  capable,  and  make  his  want  of  individuality  tolerable, 
and  even  laudable  and  pleasant,  when,  like  most  of  us,  he 
has  little  of  his  own.  Then  he  can  never  be  so  offensive 
if  we  do  not  like  him.  Those  that  we  do  not  like  are 
often  offensive  because  their  personal  vanity  appears  upon 
a  solid  ground  of  their  own  stupidity.  Perhaps  this  is 
why  the  Japanese  objet  d'art  never  offends,  at  least  in  the 
older  work  done  under  the  general  influences  that  have 
obtained  with  the  race. 

Hence,  also,  their  astonishing  variety.  A  thousand 
times,  many  thousand  times,  you  will  have  seen  the  same 
subject,  but  never  the  same  rendering,  never  the  same  ob¬ 
ject,  twice  repeated.  That  is  to  say,  that  whenever  it  is 


i37 


worth  while  we  can  get  at  the  most  valuable  and  costly 
part  of  the  work  of  art,  the  humanity  that  made  it, 
the  love  of  something  that  went  with  the  work.  It  is  this 
that  makes  the  mystery  of  the  charm  of  innumerable  little 
pieces  of  older  work,  like  the  metal-work  that  belongs  to 
the  old  swords,  any  one  of  which  is  superior  to  anything 
that  we  do,  unless  in  the  rare  cases  when  we  bring  in  the 
expensive  life  of  a  great  master  to  rival  it  —  some  part  of 
the  work  left  by  a  Barye,  a  Cellini,  a  Pisano. 

All  that  our  great  men  have  done  is  exactly  opposite 
to  the  tendency  of  our  modern  work,  and  is  based  on  the 
same  ground  that  the  Japanese  has  lived  and  worked  on 
—  i.  e.,  the  reality  and  not  the  appearance,  the  execution 
and  not  the  proposition  of  a  theme.  The  whole  principle 
is  involved  in  the  analysis  of,  say,  a  successful  study  from 
nature — a  beautiful  painting,  for  instance,  of  a  beautiful 
sky.  In  such  a  case  the  subject  is  all  provided;  the  im¬ 
portance  of  the  result  depends  upon  the  artist’s  sensitive¬ 
ness  to  the  facts  supplied  to  him,  upon  his  use  of  his  her¬ 
editary  and  acquired  methods  of  recording  them,  and 
upon  his  personal  variation  of  those  methods.  No  one 
dreams  of  praising  the  art  of  the  sky  itself,  that  is  to  say, 
the  fact  that  the  facts  existed ;  to  praise  the  artist  for  the 
thing  having  occurred  from  which  he  worked.  It  is  this 
apparent  want  of  comprehension  of  the  first  principles  of 
the  plastic  arts  in  our  poor  work,  and  in  a  vast  proportion 
of  our  best,  that  makes  any  reasonable  man  a  pessimist  as 
to  our  near  future.  Every  poor  element  of  our  civiliza¬ 
tion  is  against  it,  and  our  influences  are  now  deteriorating 
the  art  of  Japan.  We  value  material  or  the  body  instead 
of  workmanship  or  the  right  use  of  the  body  ;  and  instead 
of  style  and  design,  the  intellect  and  the  heart.  To  us  a 
gold  object  seems  spiritually  precious,  and  we  hesitate  at 
working  in  other  than  costly  materials.  To  the  Japanese 
workman  wood  and  gold  have  been  nothing  but  the  means 


to  an  end.  We  had  rather  not  do  anything  than  do  any¬ 
thing  not  enduring,  so  that  when  our  materials  are  diffi¬ 
cult,  the  life  has  flown  that  was  to  animate  them ;  the 
Japanese  is  willing  to  build  a  temporary  architecture,  and 
make  a  temporary  lacquer,  which  holds  more  beauty  and 
art  than  we  to-day  manage  to  get  in  granite  or  in  metal. 

And  when  the  Oriental  workman  takes  the  hardest  sur¬ 
faces  of  steel  or  of  jade,  he  has  had  the  preparations  for 
using  it  with  mastery  ;  it  is  again  plastic  and  yielding  for 
him,  as  the  less  abiding  materials  have  been  before.  Nor 
would  the  Japanese  artist  understand  the  point  of  view  of 
many  of  our  men,  who  do  their  best  to  put  an  end  to  all 
art,  so  lost  are  they  in  our  vanity  of  “advertisement.’’ 
The  Japanese  would  never  have  invented  the  idea  of 
doing  poorly  the  work  one  is  forced  to  do  to  live,  so  as  to 
reserve  vast  energy  for  more  important  or  influential  work 
that  might  draw  attention  to  him.  The  greater  part  of 
our  “decoration”  is  carried  out  just  the  contrary  way  to 
his.  Our  artists  accept  as  a  momentary  curse  the  fact 
that  to  live  they  may  have  to  draw  patterns,  or  work  in 
glass,  or  paint  or  model  subsidiary  ornamentation.  They 
look  forward  to  the  glorious  time  when  they  may  wreak 
their  lofty  souls  in  the  dignity  of  paint  mixed  with  the 
sacred  linseed  oil,  or  in  the  statue  done  in  bronze  or 
carved  in  marble  by  other  hands  than  theirs.  And  yet 
if  their  nature  be  not  too  far  removed  from  ours,  the 
habit  of  doing  less  than  their  best,  the  habit  of  doing 
poorly,  the  scorn  of  anything  but  the  fine  clothes  of  a  fine 
material,  will  never  be  gotten  over,  and  throughout  this 
little  cheapness  of  soul,  this  essential  snobbishness,  will  be 
felt  to  puzzle  and  disconcert  those  who  wish  to  admire. 

That  is  to  say,  that  they  too  often  do  not  look  to  the 
end,  but  to  the  means,  while  to  the  artist  the  means  are  a 
mere  path — as  with  the  Greeks,  whose  work  will  live, 
even  if  its  very  physical  existence  is  obliterated,  because 


139 


it  is  built  in  the  mind,  in  the  eternity  of  thought.  So 
Greek  art  existed,  and  has  lived,  and  lives,  the  most  flour¬ 
ishing  and  richest  that  we  know  of — with  less  to  repre¬ 
sent  it  than  we  turn  out  daily.  So  it  lived,  when  it  had 
no  longer  anything  of  its  own  body  to  represent  it,  in 
everything  that  was  done  in  every  country  which  kept 
its  lessons  ;  and  lives  still,  without  examples  to  refer  to, 
even  into  the  very  painting  of  to-day.  It  is  the  principle 
of  the  proper  place  of  means  that  makes  the  little  piece 
of  Japanese  metal-work  —  for  instance,  the  sword-guard 
or  the  knife-handle  —  an  epitome  of  art,  certainly  a  greater 
work  of  art  than  any  modern  cathedral.  And  as  certainly 
we  shall  never  even  produce  good  ordinary  ornamental 
work  until  we  feel  the  truth  that  I  have  lamely  indicated. 

“I  might  perhaps  do  as  well  as  this,”  said  an  intelligent 
architect,  as  we  looked  at  some  excellent  but  not  noblest 
details  of  French  Renaissance,  “but  how  could  I  spend  the 
time  on  it  ?  And  not  only  that,  but  how  could  I  have 
spent  the  time  previous  to  this  in  doing  other  similar 
work  to  train  me  ?  I  can  only  make  a  project,  have  it 
carried  out  by  the  best  commercial  firm,  not  anxious  to 
change  the  course  of  trade,  and  shut  my  eyes  to  the  re¬ 
sult.  I  should  never  be  criticized,  because  I  did  not  give 
more  than  my  bargain.”  And  yet  to  give  more  than  your 
bargain  is  merely  to  give  art. 

Look  at  this  little  netsuke ,*  or  inro,1  or  sword-guard, 
and  follow  the  workman  as  you  admire  each  detail  of  the 
execution.  He  has  chosen  some  subject  or  some  design 
which  may  have  an  associated  meaning,  or  may  be  of 
good  omen,  and  bear  good  wishes,  or  he  may  have  chosen 
out  of  the  entire  world  of  observation,  of  fancy,  or  of  tra¬ 
dition  ;  and  may  have  chosen  just  as  much  because  it  fits 
well  the  space  which  he  has  to  cover. 

1  Carved  button  used  for  suspending  the  tobacco-pouch  to  the  belt. 

2  A  nest  of  small  boxes  carried  suspended  front  the  belt. 


140 


He  will  take  as  well  a  design  that  has  been  used  a  hun¬ 
dred  times  as  a  newer  one.  For  he  has  to  reinvent  it  in 
execution,  even  as  the  Greek  sculptor  who  recut  again 
the  “egg  and  dart,”  or  the  orator  who  is  to  expound  and 
carry  out  to  success  some  argument  all  ready  in  his  mind 
—  as  the  old  architect  who  rebuilt  a  glorious  Greek  tem¬ 
ple  upon  the  rules  and  canons  of  proportion  that  others 
had  used  before  him.  But  he  has  to  see  that  this  de¬ 
sign  in  his  mind  —  or  nearer  yet,  perhaps  on  paper  — 
shall  fit  the  spaces  of  the  material  and  of  the  object  which 
he  is  to  make,  so  that  it  shall  be  made,  as  it  were,  for  that 
place  only.  He  will  then  go  again  to  nature, —  perhaps 
working  directly  from  it,  perhaps  only  to  his  memory 
of  sight,-—  for  remember,  that  in  what  we  call  working 
from  nature — we  painters  —  we  merely  use  a  shorter  strain 
of  memory  than  when  we  carry  back  to  our  studios  the 
vision  that  we  wish  to  note.  And  more  than  that,  the 
very  way  in  which  we  draw  our  lines,  and  mix  our  pig¬ 
ments,  in  the  hurry  of  instant  record,  in  the  certainty  of 
successful  handling,  implies  that  our  mind  is  filled  with 
innumerable  memories  of  continuous  trials. 

The  workman  then  goes  to  nature,  and  finds  in  it  the 
reality  and  the  details  of  his  design,  even,  let  us  say,  to 
the  very  markings  of  a  tree  trunk  that  he  has  chosen  : 
they  are  all  there,  since  they  exist  in  the  design,  and  the 
design  is  good.  But  they  exist  only  in  so  far  as  they  ex¬ 
ist  also  in  the  ivory  that  he  cuts  —  in  the  veining  of  the 
tortoise-shell  or  malachite  that  is  to  render  it.  Now  with 
patient  pleasure  he  can  hunt  out  these  associations ;  he 
can  use  gold,  or  silver,  or  vulgar  lead,  or  lacquer,  or  the 
cutting  and  filing  of  steel,  or  the  iridescence  of  mother- 
of-pearl  for  his  leaves,  or  his  stems,  or  the  water,  or  the 
birds, —  for  the  clouds  or  the  moonlight, —  for  the  sun¬ 
shine  and  the  shadow,— -for  the  light  and  dark, —  for  the 
“  male  and  female  ”  of  his  little  manufactured  world. 


These  he  will  model,  chisel,  sink,  or  emboss  as  the  story 
needs,  and  do  it  coarsely,  or  loosely,  or  minutely,  or  deli¬ 
cately,  as  the  unity  of  his  little  world  requires.  And  he 
will  work  in  a  hurry,  or  work  slowly,  he  will  varnish  it 
and  rub  it  down,  and  polish  it  again,  and  bake  it  many 
times,  and  let  it  weather  out  of  doors,  or  shut  it  up  care¬ 
fully  from  the  smallest  track  of  dust,  or  bathe  it  in  acids 
or  salts,  and  all  this  for  days  and  months  in  the  year. 
And  when  he  has  finished,— because  to  do  more  or  less 
would  not  be  to  finish  it, — he  has  given  me,  besides  the 
excellency  of  what  we  call  workmanship,  which  he  must 
give  me  because  that  is  the  bargain  between  us  —  he 
has  given  me  his  desires,  his  memories,  his  pleasures,  his 
dreams,  all  the  little  occurrences  of  so  much  life.  As 
you  see,  he  is  following  the  law  of  Tao,  so  that  however 
humble  his  little  world,  it  has  a  life  of  its  own  which  can¬ 
not  be  separated  from  its  materials ;  no  picture  of  it,  no 
reproduction,  will  give  its  full  charm,  any  more  than  a 
photograph  gives  that  of  a  human  being.  Take  out  the 
word  Japanese  wherever  I  have  put  it,  take  out  the  actual 
materials  that  I  have  mentioned,  and  the  description  and 
the  reasoning  will  apply.  That  is  all  there  is  to  any  work 
of  art.  It  does  not  exist  in  a  fine  abstract  of  intention  — 
nor  again  in  the  application  of  some  method  of  toil  — to 
define  “  technic,”  as  so  many  young  idiots  most  excus¬ 
ably  try  to  persuade  themselves.  It  exists  in  an  indi¬ 
vidual  result  with  origins  so  powerful  and  deep  that  they 
are  lost  in  shade. 

To  go  on,  I  wish  to  put  it  that  the  same  reasons  will 
cause  the  artist,  then,  to  elaborate  profusely,  to  work  in 
long  patience,  to  use  precious  materials,  to  work  slightly 
or  carelessly,  to  finish  his  work  with  minute  details,  or  to 
sketch  rapidly  with  the  end  of  a  brush  filled  with  the 
single  color  of  India  ink. 

There  is  no  difference  in  reality ;  there  is  only  the 


42 


question  of  the  kind  of  interest  he  wishes  to  evoke,  the 
sort  of  relation  he  wishes  to  establish  between  himself 
and  his  work,  and  incidentally  to  me,  the  looker-on. 

I  am  afraid  that  this  hazy  weather  is  affecting  the  se¬ 
quence  of  my  dreaming,  or  what  I  am  pleased  to  call  my 
thought,  so  that  you  may  not  clearly  understand  me. 

Again  I  wish  you  to  remark  that  in  all  fullness  of  work 
other  things  are  suggested  than  those  directly  represented, 
upon  the  same  principle,  for  the  same  reasons,  that  the 
successful  sketch,  as  I  said  before,  is  richer  than  it  looks. 
Hence  the  suggestion  of  color  when  there  is  really  but 
black  and  white ;  hence  the  suggestion  of  modeled  light 
and  shadow  when  there  is  really  but  flat  color  and  out¬ 
lines.  Hence  the  success  of  all  great  periods  in  what  we 
call  decorative  work,  because  there  was  no  separation ; 
there  was  merely  art  to  be  used  to  fill  certain  spaces,  and 
to  recall  the  fact  that  it  was  so  used. 

Many  years  ago  I  used  to  read  Mr.  Ruskin,  when  “  my 
sight  was  bad,  and  I  lived  within  the  points  of  the  com¬ 
pass,”  and  also  the  works  of  other  men,  who  laid  down 
the  exact  geography  and  the  due  distances,  north  and 
south,  of  a  certain  department  or  land  of  art  which  they 
called  “  Decoration.”  Some  of  them  are  not  yet  dead. 
The  light  of  Tao  fell  upon  the  subject  from  the  words  of 
a  child  who  had  been  listening  to  a  talk  in  which  I  and 
others  wiser  than  myself  were  trying  to  follow  out  these 
boundaries  that  outlined  “  true  ”  methods  of  decorative 
art,  and  kept  to  the  received  instructions  of  abstention 
from  this  and  that,  of  refraining  from  such  and  such  a  re¬ 
ality,  of  stiffening  the  flow  of  outline,  of  flattening  the 
fullness  of  modeling,  of  turning  our  backs  on  light  and 
shade,  of  almost  hating  the  surface  of  nature ;  and  we 
wondered  that  when  our  European  exemplars  of  to-day 
had  fulfilled  every  condition  of  conventionality,  had  care¬ 
fully  avoided  the  use  of  the  full  methods  of  art,  in  the 


143 


great  specialties  of  painting  and  sculpture,  their  glorious 
work  had  less  stuff  to  it  than  a  Gothic  floral  ornament  or 
a  Japanese  painted  fan.  “Father,”  said  the  child,  “are 
you  not  all  making  believe  ?  Is  the  Japanese  richness  in 
their  very  flat  work  so  different  from  what  you  can  see  in 
this  sketch  by  my  little  brother  ?  See  how  his  tree  looks 
as  if  it  had  light  and  shadow,  and  yet  he  has  used  no 
modeling.  He  has  used  only  the  markings  of  the  tree 
and  their  variation  of  color  to  do  for  both.  He  has  left 
out  nothing,  and  yet  it  is  flat  painting.” 

Nor  have  the  Japanese  left  out  things.  They  have  not 
been  forced  to  overstudy  any  part,  so  as  to  lose  the  look 
of  free  choice,  to  make  the  work  assume  the  appearance 
of  task-work  — the  work  of  a  workman  bored,  nobly 
bored  perhaps,  but  still  bored,  a  feeling  that  is  reflected 
in  the  mind  of  the  beholder.  The  Japanese  artist  makes 
his  little  world,— often  nothing  but  an  India-ink  world, — 
but  its  occupants  live  within  it.  They  are  always  obedi¬ 
ent  to  all  the  laws  of  nature  that  they  know  of. 

However  piercing  the  observation  of  actual  fact,  its  re¬ 
cord  is  always  a  synthesis.  I  remember  many  years  ago 
looking  over  some  Japanese  drawings  of  hawking  with 
two  other  youngsters,  one  of  them  now  a  celebrated  artist, 
the  other  a  well-known  teacher  of  science.  What  struck 
us  then  was  the  freedom  of  record,  the  acute  vision  of 
facts,  the  motions  and  actions  of  the  birds,  their  flight, 
their  attention,  and  their  resting,  the  alertness  and  anxiety 
of  their  hunters,  and  the  suggestions  of  the  entire  land¬ 
scapes  (made  with  a  few  brush-marks).  One  saw  the 
heat,  and  the  damp,  and  the  dark  meandering  of  water  in 
the  swamps  ;  marked  the  dry  paths  which  led  over  sound¬ 
ing  wooden  bridges,  and  the  tangle  of  weeds  and  brush, 
and  the  stiff  swaying  of  high  trees.  All  was  to  us  real¬ 
ism,  but  affected  by  an  unknown  charm. 

Now  this  is  what  the  artist  who  did  this  realism  has 


144 


said,  as  well  as  I  can  make  it  out :  “  The  ancient  mode 
must  be  maintained.  Though  a  picture  must  be  made 
like  the  natural  growth  of  all  things,  yet  it  lacks  taste  and 
feeling  if  it  simulates  the  real  things.” 

Evidently  the  painter  had  not  learned  our  modern  dis¬ 
tinctions  of  the  realist  and  the  idealist. 

If  you  wished  to  know  what  I  admire  most  in  these 
forms  of  art,  I  might  say  to  you,  keeping,  I  hope,  within 
the  drift  of  what  I  have  been  writing,  that  it  is  their 
obedience  to  early  rules  which  were  once  based  on  the 
first  primeval  needs  of  the  artist.  And  if  you  pushed  me 
further,  and  wished  to  make  me  confess  what  I  thought 
that  these  necessities  might  be,  and  to  make  me  give  you 
a  definition  of  them,  and  thereby  force  me  into  a  de¬ 
finition  of  art  itself,  I  should  hesitatingly  state  that  I  do 
not  like  to  define  in  matters  so  far  down  as  causes.  But 
if  you  would  not  tell,  or  take  advantage  of  my  having 
been  drawn  into  such  a  position  of  doctrine,  I  might 
acknowledge  that  I  have  far  within  me  a  belief  that  art 
is  the  love  of  certain  balanced  proportions  and  relations 
which  the  mind  likes  to  discover  and  to  bring  out  in 
what  it  deals  with,  be  it  thought,  or  the  actions  of  men,  or 
the  influences  of  nature,  or  the  material  things  in  which 
necessity  makes  it  to  work.  I  should  then  expand  this 
idea  until  it  stretched  from  the  patterns  of  earliest  pottery 
to  the  harmony  of  the  lines  of  Homer.  Then  I  should  say 
that  in  our  plastic  arts  the  relations  of  lines  and  spaces  are, 
in  my  belief,  the  first  and  earliest  desires.  And  again 
I  should  have  to  say  that,  in  my  unexpressed  faith,  these 
needs  are  as  needs  of  the  soul,  and  echoes  of  the  laws  of 
the  universe,  seen  and  unseen,  reflections  of  the  universal 
mathematics,  cadences  of  the  ancient  music  of  the  spheres. 

For  I  am  forced  to  believe  that  there  are  laws  for  our 
eyes  as  well  as  for  our  ears,  and  that  when,  if  ever,  these 


10 


145 


shall  have  been  deciphered,  as  has  been  the  good  fortune 
with  music,  then  shall  we  find  that  all  best  artists  have 
carefully  preserved  their  instinctive  obedience  to  these, 
and  have  all  cared  together  for  this  before  all. 

For  the  arrangements  of  line  and  balances  of  spaces 
which  meet  these  underlying  needs  are  indeed  the  points 
through  which  we  recognize  the  answer  to  our  natural 
love  and  sensitiveness  for  order,  and  through  this  answer 
we  feel,  clearly  or  obscurely,  the  difference  between  what 
we  call  great  men  and  what  we  call  the  average,  whatever 
the  personal  charm  may  be. 

This  is  why  we  remember  so  easily  the  arrangement 
and  composition  of  such  a  one  whom  we  call  a  master — 
that  is  why  the  “silhouette”  of  a  Millet  against  the  sky, 
why  his  placing  of  outlines  within  the  rectangle  of  his 
picture,  makes  a  different,  a  final,  and  decisive  result,  im¬ 
pressed  strongly  upon  the  memory  which  classifies  it, 
when  you  compare  it  with  the  record  of  the  same  story, 
say,  by  Jules  Breton.  It  is  not  the  difference  of  the  fact 
in  nature,  it  is  not  that  the  latter  artist  is  not  in  love  with 
his  subject,  that  he  has  not  a  poetic  nature,  that  he  is  not 
simple,  that  he  has  not  dignity,  that  he  is  not  exquisite; 
it  is  that  he  has  not  found  in  nature  of  his  own  instinct 
the  eternal  mathematics  which  accompany  facts  of  sight. 
For  indeed,  to  use  other  words,  in  what  does  one  differ 
from  the  other  ?  The  arrangement  of  the  idea  or  subject 
may  be  the  same,  the  costume,  the  landscape,  the  time 
of  day,  nay,  the  very  person  represented.  But  the  Millet, 
if  we  take  this  instance,  is  framed  within  a  larger  line,  its 
spaces  are  of  greater  or  more  subtle  ponderation,  its  build¬ 
ing  together  more  architectural.  That  is  to  say,  all  its 
spaces  are  more  surely  related  to  one  another ,  and  not 
only  to  the  story  told,  nor  only  to  the  accidental  occurrence 
of  the  same.  The  eternal  has  been  brought  in  to  sustain 
the  transient. 


146 


For  fashions  change  as  to  feelings  and  sentiments  and 
ways  of  looking  at  the  world.  The  tasks  of  the  days  of 
Angelico,  or  of  Rubens,  or  of  Millet  are  not  the  same ; 
religions  live  and  disappear ;  nations  come  and  go  in  and 
out  of  the  pages  of  history :  but  I  can  see  nothing  from 
the  earliest  art  that  does  not  mean  living  in  a  like  desire 
for  law  and  order  in  expression.  It  is,  therefore,  because 
we  consciously  or  unconsciously  recognize  this  love  of 
the  unwritten  harmonies  of  our  arts,  the  power  of  recall¬ 
ing  them  to  us,  in  some  painter  or  in  some  architect,  that 
we  say  that  such  a  man  is  great.  He  is  great  because  he 
is  the  same  as  man  has  been,  and  will  be  ;  and  we  recog¬ 
nize,  without  knowing  them  by  name,  our  ancestral  prim¬ 
ordial  predilections. 

Yes,  the  mere  direction  or  distance  of  a  line  by  the 
variation  of  some  fraction  of  an  inch  establishes  this 
enormous  superiority  —  a  little  more  curve  or  less,  a  mere 
black  or  white  or  colored  space  of  a  certain  proportion, 
a  few  darks  or  reds  or  blues.  And  now  you  will  ask, 
Do  you  intend  to  state  that  decoration  —  ?  To  which  I 
should  say,  I  do  not  mean  to  leave  my  main  path  of 
principles  to-day,  and  when  I  return  we  shall  have  time 
to  discuss  objections.  Besides,  “I  am  not  arguing;  I  am 
telling  you.” 

This  is  the  unity,  this  is  the  reality,  which  disengages 
itself  from  the  art  of  Japan,  even  as  we  know  it  in  com¬ 
mon,  through  what  we  usually  call  “  bric-a-brac.”  Our 
introduction  to  it  is  rather  curious  when  one  comes  to 
think  of  it.  Suddenly,  owing  to  enormous  social  changes 
in  Japan,  involving  vast  fluctuations  in  fortunes,  most  of 
all  that  was  portable  was  for  sale,  and  flooded  our  markets. 
Ignorant  dealers  held  in  masses  small  treasures  of  tem¬ 
ples,  adornments  of  the  wealthy,  all  the  odds  and  ends 
of  real  art,  along  with  the  usual  furniture,  along  with  all 

147 


the  poor  stuff"  that  would  naturally  be  made  for  us  bar¬ 
barians,  and  had  been  made  for  us  for  centuries  through 
the  trade  of  Holland.  It  was  as  if  Paris  or  London 
had  suddenly  been  unloaded  of  everything  portable,  from 
works  of  art  to  household  furniture.  Naturally  the  main¬ 
spring  of  it  all, —  the  works  of  great  draftsmen,  for  in¬ 
stance, —  being  more  debatable,  more  inexplicable,  more 
useless,  in  a  word,  or  detained  by  stronger  bands,  just  as 
it  would  be  with  us,  have  somewhat  escaped  the  drain. 
Our  perceptions  have  been  confused  in  all  this  mixture 
by  repetitions,  imitations,  which  in  every  form  of  art,  as 
we  know  so  well  in  literature,  degrade  the  perception  and 
enjoyment  of  what  is  good.  I  can  only  wonder  that  the 
world  has  not  been  tired  out  and  disgusted  with  Japanese 
bric-a-brac.  And  had  we  not  been  in  such  bad  straits  of 
taste  ourselves,  such  would  have  been  the  case.  I  have 
always  considered  that  the  artist  needed  to  be  forgiven 
for  his  turn  toward  bric-a-brac  ;  not  for  his  liking  to  have 
odds  and  ends  for  help  and  refreshment,  but  for  having 
too  many ;  because  his  life  is  to  make,  not  to  collect.  To 
others,  that  can  be  forgiven  easily  ;  for  the  pieces  of  the 
past  are  a  consolation  of  the  present,  and  one  would  like 
to  feel  that  a  man’s  likings  are  his  important  self,  and  are 
betrayed  by  his  choices.  “  Dis-moi  ce  que  tu  aimes — je 
te  dirai  ce  que  tu  es.” 

If  one  had  time  and  did  not  do,  what  pleasure  it  might 
be  to  describe  forever  the  innumerable  objects  and  things 
that  might  be  found  here,  even  though  words  are  a  poor 
rendering  of  sight.  And  what  pleasure  it  might  be  to 
try  to  describe  the  greatest  of  all  bric-a-brac,  the  greatest 
remains  of  the  higher  arts — -sculpture  and  painting. 

I  have  begun  some  such  letter  for  you,  but  I  fear  that 
it  may  never  be  finished.  Nor  do  I  see  any  way  of  giv¬ 
ing  an  account  of  the  history  of  painting  in  Japan,  which 
would  have  to  stand  for  a  still  further  explanation.  Should 

148 


I  study  it  further,  can  I  do  more  than  to  increase  my  own 
knowledge,— and  all  knowledge  is  a  burden,™ and  to  give 
you  cursory  proof,  by  names  and  a  few  examples,  that 
the  art  of  painting  and  the  art  of  sculpture  are  very  old 
here  ?  I  should  have  to  begin  to  ask  myself  for  you  if  the 
earliest  remains  do  not  already  prove  still  earlier  schools 
and  accepted  or  debated  tradition,  and  I  should  then  have 
still  one  thousand  years  of  design  to  account  for. 

I  shall  probably  leave  my  letter  to  you  un¬ 
finished.  It  has  already  become  unwieldy,  and  -Pp-  s> 
I  could  give  you  only  my  own  impressions.  And  ■Jo 
then  in  the  history  of  art  everything  is  needed.  . 

It  would  not  be  merely  reproduction  in  words, 
however  beautiful,  of  the  surfaces  of  works  that 
have  survived  time,  nor  of  the  men  who  made 
them,  of  their  characters,  the  accidents  of  their 
lives,  and  their  technical  beliefs.  It  would  be 
simply  a  history  of  humanity  at  a  given  place. 

It  could  not  be  solved  by  a  mere  account  of  the 
place  and  the  race,  according  to  some  of  our 
later  scientific  fads.  I  was  writing  to  you  but 
yesterday,  and  trying  to  make  out  that  the  work 
of  art  is  often  a  contradiction  of  the  period,  or  a 
step  in  advance ;  that  the  moods  of  feeling  of 
the  future  are  as  often  reflected  by  art  as  the 
habits  of  the  present.  But  whatever  personal 
sense  of  solitariness  or  of  antagonism  has  in¬ 
spired  or  oppressed  the  artist,  he  must  have  had 
partners  since  he  has  had  admirers,  even  when 
he  antagonizes  his  time.  However  transient  cer¬ 
tain  of  his  forms,  however  much  to  us  who  come 
afterward  they  indicate  the  period ,  he  has  ex¬ 
pressed  not  his  time,  but  the  needs  of  others 
who  have  been  looking  in  the  same  ways,  and 
yet  have  had  no  voice.  And  even  if  they  have 
IO*  I49 


SIGNATURE 

OF 

HOKUSAI. 


not  quite  sympathized,  the  accumulations  of  like  tenden¬ 
cies  have  become  stronger  and  clearer  in  their  descendants. 
To  reflect  fully,  then,  in  words,  the  face  of  the  work  of 
art,  one  would  have  to  melt  into  it  in  some  way  the  gaze 
of  those  who  have  looked  at  it ;  to  keep  upon  it  still  the 
gentle  looks  of  the  pitiful  and  the  loving,  the  rapt  con¬ 
templation  of  the  saints,  the  tender  or  mocking  smile  of 
women,  the  hard  or  contemptuous  appreciation  of  rulers, 
the  toleration  of  the  wise,  all  of  which  have  been  in 
reality  a  part  of  the  very  work.  Their  negations  or 
sympathies  have  fallen  on  the  work,  and  these  ineffable 
delicacies  of  impression  are  transmitted  in  it  to  successive 
generations,  even  as  the  shadowing  of  innumerable  years 
of  incense-burning  has  browned  the  gold  and  blackened 
the  azure,  as  concealment  in  the  shade  has  sometimes 
paled,  sometimes  preserved,  the  edges  of  the  outlines  and 
the  modeling  of  the  colors,  or  exposure  and  heat  and 
damp  have  cracked  and  channeled  and  dusted  all  surfaces. 
You  see  what  I  should  consider  a  true  carrying  out  of 
such  a  task,  and  how  unsatisfied  I  should  be  with  any¬ 
thing  that  I  could  accomplish,  unless  it  were  to  stand  to 
you  as  something  fragmentary  and  evanescent.  One 
thing  I  should  like  to  do, —  should  I  remain  long  enough, 
and  be  able  to  get  it  from  the  few  acquaintances  who 
may  know, —  and  that  is,  to  save  some  part  of  the  artists 
themselves  out  of  that  obscurity  by  which  the  lives  of  great 
workers  are  almost  always  clouded.  To  me  Rembrandt, 
and  Balzac,  and  Delacroix,  each  contradictory  to  his  sur¬ 
roundings,  have  become  more  intelligible  through  the 
record  of  their  every-day  struggle,  the  exactness  of  mea¬ 
surement  which  one  can  place  upon  the  personal  circum¬ 
stances  in  which  they  carried'out  their  work,  the  limitations 
of  its  exact  meaning  and  importance  in  their  own  eyes,  as 
we  follow  them  in  the  daylight  of  favor,  or  in  the  gloomy 
endings  that  so  often  close  the  lives  of  great  artists. 

150 


I  hear  occasionally  of  the  wanderings  of  Kano  Moto- 
nobu,  the  founder  of  the  great  school  and  family  of  art¬ 
ists  who  have  lasted  through  four  centuries  to  the  pre¬ 
sent  day,  and  have  filled  Japan  and  the  temples  here  with 
works  better  or  poorer,  until  the  family  name  becomes  a 
burden.  I  hear  about  Ohio,  the  charmer,  the  painter  of 
everything  and  of  animals,  who  began  as  a  little  child,  by 
sketching  on  the  earth  with  bamboo  sticks  when  he  fol¬ 
lowed  his  parents  into  the  fields  to  work.  One  might 
perhaps  learn  about  Hokusai,  who  is  tabooed  here,  and 
about  whom  I  dare  not  inquire,  but  whose  charming  last 
letter,  as  given  by  Mr.  Morse,  comes  back  to  my  memory  — 
it  is  so  gay  and  so  sad,  so  triumphant  over  circumstances, 
so  expressive  of  the  view  of  the  world  which  explains  his 
woodcuts.  I  quote  from  memory:  “King  Em-nia  ”  (he 
writes  to  a  friend)  —  “  King  Em-ma  ”  (the  ruler  of  the 
under  world)  “  has  become  very  old,  and  is  thinking  of 
retiring  from  business ;  so  that  he  has  ordered  a  little 
country  house  to  be  built,  and  he  asks  of  me  to  come  to 
him  that  I  may  paint  him  a  ‘  kakemono  ’ ;  so  that  in  a  few 
days  I  must  be  ready  to  travel  and  to  take  my  sketches 
with  me.  I  shall  take  up  my  residence  at  the  corner  of 
the  Street  of  the  Under  World,  where  it  will  give  me 
much  pleasure  to  receive  thee,  when  thou  hast  the  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  come  over  there.” 

Or  this  mocking  challenge  to  old  age,  at  the  end  of  one 
of  the  volumes  of  his  pictures  of  Fuji  : 

“  Since  my  sixth  year  I  have  felt  the  impulse  to  repre¬ 
sent  the  form  of  things ;  by  the  age  of  fifty  I  had  pub¬ 
lished  numberless  drawings ;  but  I  am  displeased  with 
all  I  have  produced  before  the  age  of  seventy.  It  is  at 
seventy-three  that  I  have  begun  to  understand  the  form 
and  the  true  nature  of  birds,  of  fishes,  of  plants,  and  so 
forth.  Consequently,  by  the  time  I  get  to  eighty,  I  shall 
have  made  much  progress ;  at  ninety,  I  shall  get  to  the 

i5* 


essence  of  things  ;  at  a  hundred,  I  shall  have  most  cer¬ 
tainly  come  to  a  superior,  undefinable  position  ;  and  at 
the  age  of  a  hundred  and  ten,  every  point,  every  line, 
shall  be  alive.  And  I  leave  it  to  those  who  shall  live 
as  I  have  myself,  to  see  if  I  have  not  kept  my  word. 
Written,  at  the  age  of  seventy-five,  by  me,  formerly 
known  as  Hokusai,  but  now  known  as  Gakyo  Rojin  (The 
Old  Man  gone  Mad  for  Painting).” 

...  I  had  been  intending  to  add,  when  I  interrupted 

myself  some  way  back,  that  I 
enjoyed  in  this  art  of  Japan 
—  at  least  in  this  drawing 
which  they  call  painting — the 
strange  nearness  I  seem  to 
be  in  to  the  feelings  of  the 
men  who  did  the  work.  There 
is  between  us  only  a  thin  veil 
of  consummate  skill.  The 
habit  and  the  methods  re¬ 
sulting  from  it,  of  an  old  obe¬ 
dience  to  an  unwritten  law 
common  to  all  art,  have 
asked  for  the  directest  ways 
of  marking  an  intention  or  an 
observation. 

This  reference  to  a  pre¬ 
vious  tradition  of  meaning,  of 
ideal  arrangement  by  rule, 
this  wish  for  synopsis,  this 
feeling  for  manners  of  expres¬ 
sing  one’s  self  in  the  thing 
seen,  will  naturally  make  art 
out  of  anything.  And  it  is 
not  wonderful  that  what  we  call  handwriting  may  then 
give  full  play  to  art,  in  a  written  language  of  which  ide- 

152 


INSCRIPTION  ON  OLD  LACQUER. 


ography  is  the  key.  Given  the  Chinese  characters,  their 
original  intentions,  the  associations,  historical  and  liter¬ 
ary,  connected  with  them,  is  it  anything  strange  in  reality, 
however  strange  to  our  habits,  to  find  writing  a  form  of 
art  in  Japan?  It  may  have  all  I  have  just  referred  to, 
and  be  full  of  the  meaning  of  ideas,  and  be  literature,  and 
then  it  can  be  made  conformable  to  the  laws  of  beauty 
of  form  and  spacing  ;  and  above  all,  to  give  character 
of  style,  and  character  of  personality,  to  look  more  or  less 
grave,  or  elegant,  or  weighty,  according  to  circumstances, 
be  elegiac,  or  lyric,  or  epic,  and  reflect  on  its  face  the  in¬ 
tentions  of  the  text.  And  again  it  will  be  the  mark  or 
sign  of  the  person  ;  so  that  my  Japanese  friends  can  ob¬ 
ject  to  Hokusai’s  bad  writing,  as  betraying  something 
not  refined,  for  a  weighty  argument  against  his  other 
works  done  with  a  similar  implement,  the  brush,  which  is 
the  pen  of  the  far  East. 

It  will  then  be  in  what  we  call  drawing — which  is  an 
abstraction,  the  synopsis  of  the  outlines  of  things  meeting 
together,  of  their  relative  intensities,  of  their  own  colors, 
of  their  relations  to  the  place  they  are  in,  that  is  to  say, 
the  picture  —  that  this  art  of  Japan,  the  daughter  of  the 
art  of  China,  will  attain  its  highest  form  ;  so  that  in  re¬ 
ality  those  of  us  who  think  of  it  as  appearing  at  its  best 
only  in  color,  in  external  charm,  have  not  understood  it. 
An  etching  of  Rembrandt  could  fairly  be  said  to  repre¬ 
sent,  not  so  much  in  itself,  but  in  its  essence,  what  a  great 
Chinaman  would  have  liked  to  do  in  India  ink  —  the  ma¬ 
terial  of  all  others  which,  even  to  us,  is  his  especially. 
The  line,  the  abstract  line  of  Rembrandt,  its  elegance,  its 
beautiful  patterning  of  the  surface,  is  concealed  to  us  by 
the  extraordinary  richness  of  some  of  his  modeling  and 
the  extreme  gradations  of  what  we  call  light  and  shade. 
But  it  is  there  all  the  same,  as  a  geologic  foundation,  in  the 
same  way  that  inside  of  the  Titian’s  splendor  of  surface 

i53 


there  is  a  decorative  substructure  as  well  balanced  and 
fixed  as  a  Venetian  brocade — just  as  the  works  of  other 
great  colorists,  as  we  call  them  (to  designate  more  com¬ 
plex  men),  imply,  in  their  constitution  and  the  mechan¬ 
ism  of  their  technic,  powers  of  design  and  drawing 
sufficient  to  furnish  out  armies  of  such  draftsmen  as  flour¬ 
ish,  for  instance,  in  the  Paris  of  to-day.  It  is  this  sur¬ 
plus  of  richness  that  conceals  the  identity.  Our  arts  have 
undertaken  an  enormous  accession  of  truths  and  ambi¬ 
tions  upon  which  the  arts  of  the  extreme  East  have  never 
ventured.  They  have  attained  their  end,  the  end  of  all 
art,  at  an  earlier  mental  period.  They  are  younger,  per¬ 
haps  even  more  like  children,  and  their  work  cannot  in¬ 
volve  the  greater  complications  of  greater  age ;  but  it 
has  also  all  that  grasp  of  the  future  that  belongs  to  youth, 
and  that  has  to  be  accompanied  by  deficiencies  of  know¬ 
ledge  ;  that  is  to  say,  of  later  acquirement  and  the  prac¬ 
tice  of  good  and  evil.  And  it  is  impossible  to  look  at 
the  expression  of  nature,  or  of  any  intention  made  by  the 
child  in  full  sincerity,  without  realizing  that  the  aim  of 
the  artist,  be  he  even  Michael  Angelo,  is  to  return  to  a 
similar  directness  and  unity  of  rendering.  Not  that  the 
Eastern  artist,  any  more  than  the  child,  could  be  con¬ 
scious  of  deficiencies  of  which  he  had  not  thought.  He 
has  been  satisfied,  as  we  have  been  satisfied,  but  for  a 
longer  time  and  under  a  greater  prestige.  As  the  fruit 
painted  by  the  Greek  deceived  the  birds,  and  the  curtain 
painted  by  the  Greek  painter  deceived  his  fellow-artist, 
so  the  horses  of  Kanaoka  have  escaped  from  their  “kake¬ 
monos,”  and  the  tigers  sculptured  in  the  lattices  of  temples 
have  been  known  to  descend  at  night  and  rend  one  an¬ 
other  in  the  courtyards.  O -  tells  me  the  Chinese 

story  of  the  painter  forced  to  let  go  his  painting  of  the 
moon  for  a  nominal  sum  to  repay  an  oppressive  money¬ 
lender,  and  how,  when  the  banker  happened  to  unroll  it, 


i54 


the  whole  room  was  illumined,  and  he  grew  into  a  habit 
of  spending  evenings  in  the  mild  effulgence  of  the  painted 
rays.  But  when,  after  an  absence,  he  looked  at  it  again, 
the  moon  was  gone, — -  where  old  moons  go,—  and  he  was 
enraged  at  the  painter,  though  he  might  well  have  noticed 
that  for  many  days  the  moon  had  not  been  so  bright,  and 

indeed  had  seemed  to  be  ill  drawn.  O - tells  me  that 

the  artist  got  it  back  for  little,  and  waited  the  necessary 
number  of  days  to  have  its  crescent  reappear  again ;  and 

A -  says  that,  though  the  picture  is  lost  to-day,  he 

hopes  to  find  it  again  in  China  in  following  years. 

These  stories  serve  as  a  way  of  stating  to  you  that  as 
long  as  new  wants  were  not 
felt,  newer  accuracies  did  not 
begin  to  exist,  and  these  limi¬ 
tations  are  naturally  seen  to 
be  more  easily  put  up  with  in 
a  civilization  of  uninterrupted 
tradition.  To  acquire  some¬ 
thing  when  one’s  hands  are 
full,  something  has  to  be 
dropped.  In  the  stations  of 
our  own  progress  in  art,  the 
advance  has  at  every  stage 
involved  some  deficiency,  or 
failure,  or  weakening  on  an¬ 
other  side.  This  is  the  only 
explanation  I  can  make  for 
painting  in  the  extreme  East 
not  having  taken  up  portrai¬ 
ture —  that  is  to  say,  not  hav¬ 
ing  triumphed  in  it,  while  sculpture  has  reached  out 
toward  it  in  a  splendid  way.  We  have  seen  the  same 
thing  in  the  transition  from  the  Middle  Ages,  when  sculp¬ 
ture  outreaches  painting  in  the  direction  of  reality.  But 

i55 


INSCRIPTION  FROM  HO-RIU-JI. 


then  sculpture  is  to  a  certain  extent  easier  and  in  a  cer¬ 
tain  way  inferior,  because  it  gives  a  sort  of  duplicate  of 
the  object,  not  a  relation  of  it  to  other  things. 

So  that  the  Japanese  have  not  come  to  the  work  from 
the  “model,”  which  has  at  so  many  periods  and  so  long 
been  ours.  Theirs  are  types  of  types  ;  they  are  not,  as 
with  us,  persons,  and  the  pursuit  of  beauty  in  the  individ¬ 
ual  has  not  been  followed  apparently  by  the  art  of  the 
far  East.  The  personal  love  and  preference  of  the  artist 
embodied  in  another  person  their  art  does  not  show ;  nor 
have  their  artists  given  a  nameless  immortality  to  certain 
human  beings,  so  that  for  ages  their  types,  their  images, 
their  moods,  their  characters,  their  most  transitory  varia¬ 
tions  of  beauty,  have  been  proposed  to  us  as  an  example. 
Have  you  ever  reflected  how  the  nameless  model  reigns 
in  the  memory  of  man  with  a  personal  fame  more  intimate 
than  that  of  Cheops,  or  Helen,  or  Caesar,  because  the  artist 
has  been  obliged  to  build  upon  this  person  his  own  dream 
of  the  world  —  as  with  the  Roman  girl  who  is  the  Madonna 
of  San  Sisto  ? 

So,  again,  the  Eastern  artists  have  suggested, 
and  implied,  and  used  light  and  shade,  and  perspective, 
and  anatomy,  and  the  relations  of  light  to  color,  and  of 
color  to  light,  only  so  much  as  they  could  take  into  their 
previous  scheme. 

In  many  cases  their  success  is  still  an  astonishment  to 
us.  Certainly  their  records  of  motion,  their  construction 
of  plants  and  flowers  and  birds,  we  have  all  appreciated ; 
and  their  scientific,  easy  noting  of  colored  light  in  land¬ 
scape  made  even  Rousseau  dream  of  absorbing  its  teach¬ 
ing  into  his  pictures,  which  certainly  represent  the  full 
Western  contradictory  idea,  in  the  most  complicated  ac¬ 
ceptance  of  every  difficulty. 

The  artist  here,  then,  has  not  made  separate  analytical 
studies  of  all  the  points  that  trouble  us,  that  have  cost  at 

156 


times  some  acquirement  of  the  past,  in  the  anxiety  for 
working  out  a  new  direction  ;  as  to-day,  for  instance,  in 
learned  France,  where  the  very  art  of  painting,  as  a  mir¬ 
ror  of  the  full-colored  appearance  of  things,  has  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century  been  in  peril,  under  the  influence  of 
the  academy  drawing-school,  the  model  in  studio  light, 
and  the  vain  attempt  to  rival  the  photograph.  And  per¬ 
haps  it  is  needless  to  repeat  again  how  we  have  lost  the 
sense  of  natural  decoration  and  expression  of  meaning  by 
general  arrangement  of  lines  and  spaces,  so  that  again  in 
France  we  are  astonished  at  M.  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  who 
uses  powers  that  have  once  been  common  to  almost  all 
our  race. 

Here  the  artist  does  not  walk  attired  in  all  the  heavy 
armor  which  we  have  gradually  accumulated  upon  us. 
His  learning  in  side  issues  is  not  unnecessarily  obtruded 
upon  me,  so  as  to  conceal  the  sensitiveness  of  his  impres¬ 
sions  or  the  refinement  of  his  mind.  As  for  us,  we  have 
marched  on  in  a  track  parallel  to  science,  striving  now  for 
centuries  to  subdue  the  material  world  —  to  get  it  into  the 
microcosm  of  our  paintings.  Each  successive  great  gene¬ 
ration  has  taken  up  the  task,  heavier  and  heavier  as  time 
goes  on,  halting  and  resting  when  some  new  “  find  ”  has 
been  made,  working  out  a  new  discovery  often  with  the 
risk  of  the  loss  of  a  greater  one. 

But  how  often  the  processes  have  covered  up  what  is 
most  important, —  to  me  at  least, —  the  value  of  the  indi¬ 
vidual,  his  aspirations,  and  indeed  the  notions  or  beliefs 
that  are  common  between  us. 

Sometimes  this  covering  has  been  sordid  and  mean, 
pedantic  or  unesthetic,  sometimes  most  splendid.  But 
how  difficult  it  has  been  always  for  the  many  to  read,  for 
instance,  in  our  great  Rubens,  the  evidences  of  a  lofty 
nature,  the  devout  intentions  of  a  healthy  mind  ! 

Not  that  we  can  turn  back  to-day  and  desert.  From 

i57 


the  time  when  the  Greek  first  asserted  in  art  the  value  of 
personal  manhood  to  the  date  of  the  “  impressionist  ”  of 
to-day,  the  career  has  been  one.  And  certainly  in  the  art 
of  painting  a  vaster  future  lies  before  us,  whenever  we  are 
ready  to  carry  the  past.  But  remember  that  whatever 
has  been  really  great  once  will  always  remain  great. 

Even  if  I  were  competent  to  make  more  than  ap¬ 
proaches  to  reflection,  this  place  of  dreams  is  not  well 
chosen  for  effort.  I  feel  rather  as  if,  tired,  I  wished  to  take 
off  my  modern  armor,  and  lie  at  rest,  and  look  at  these 
pictures  of  the  simplicity  of  attitude  in  which  we  were 
once  children.  For,  indeed,  the  meaning  of  our  struggle 
is  to  regain  that  time,  through  toil  and  the  fullness  of 
learning,  and  to  live  again  in  the  oneness  of  mind  and  feel¬ 
ing  which  is  to  open  to  us  the  doors  of  the  kingdom. 


SKETCHING 


NlKICO  SAN,  August  12. 

THE  enchantment  of  idleness  is  no  longer  to  be  lived 
in,  of  mere  enjoyment  of  what  I  see.  I  have  now 
to  feel  the  bitterness  of  work,  of  effort  of  memory  and 
analysis,  and  to  become  responsible  to  myself  for  what 
I  see,  and  for  the  accuracy  with  which  I  see  it ;  just  as 
my  quieting  inhalation  of  the  Buddhist  air  is  disturbed 
by  the  intellectual  necessity  of  giving  to  myself  some 
account  of  formulas,  and  later,  unfortunately,  of  ren¬ 
dering  to  you  this  same  account  of  my  impressions. 
And  yet  I  feel  so  delightfully  lazy,  so  much  as  if  I 
were  in  a  Newport  in  which  all  should  be  new.  All 
this  place  has  become  more  and  more  enchanting.  I  am 
sure  that  I  shall  go  with  the  regret  of  not  having  painted 
whatever  I  shall  leave  untried  ;  all  so  preferable,  undoubt¬ 
edly,  to  what  shall  have  been  done.  Everything  here 
exists  for  a  painter’s  delight,  everything  composes  or 
makes  pleasant  arrangements,  and  the  little  odds  and  ends 
are  charming,  so  that  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I  liked  the 
small  things  that  I  have  discovered  better  than  the  greater 
which  I  am  forced  to  recognize. 

And,  then,  all  looks  wild  and  natural,  as  if  undisturbed 
by  man  ;  but  no  one  can  tell  in  a  place  where  nature  is  so 
admirable,  so  admired,  and  so  adored. 

I  like  the  old  roads  between  yashiki  walls,  broken  up 
with  torrents  and  bridges ;  and  the  small  shrines  and  sa¬ 
cred  trees,  which  have  no  great  point  but  that  they  are 
pretty,  and  so  far  away  —  in  the  infancy  of  the  world. 
Stones  and  rocks  that  are  sacred — why  and  wherefore 


159 


no  one  exactly  knowing;  only  that  it  is  so,  and  has  been 
so  for  a  long,  long  time. 

Three  thousand  years  ago  Europe  was  so,  with  pagan¬ 
ism —  the  peasant  or  earth  belief — gradually  lost  to  our 
comprehension  except  through  hearsay.  So  we  are  ac¬ 
customed  to  write  of  the  sacred  grove  ;  and  here  it  is, 
all  about  me,  as  if  history  were  made  living.  The  lovely 
scenery  reminds  me  continually  of  what  has  been  asso¬ 
ciated  with  it ;  a  civilization  which  has  been  born  of  it, 
has  never  separated  from  nature,  has  its  religion,  its  art, 
and  its  historic  associations  entangled  with  all  natural 
manifestations.  The  great  Pan  might  still  be  living  here, 
in  a  state  of  the  world  which  has  sanctified  trees  and 
groves,  and  associated  the  spirit-world  with  every  form 
of  the  earthly  dwelling-place.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  nearer 
than  I  can  be  through  books  to  the  old  world  we  try  to 
rebuild  by  collation  of  facts  and  documents. 

Could  a  Greek  come  back  here  he  would  find  his 
“  soul-informed  rocks,”  and  all  that  he  thought  divine  or 
superstitious,  even  to  the  very  “  impressions  of  Aphro¬ 
dite.”  The  sacredness  that  lives  here  in  mountains  would 
seem  all  natural  to  him,  as  would  the  stories  of  mountain 
gods  who  ages  ago  met  here  the  advance  of  the  Buddhist 
priests.  For  Buddhism  has  joined  with  the  earthly  faith 
in  attaching  religious  value  to  solitary  places  and  moun¬ 
tain  heights,  and  many  are  the  stories  which  link  these 
two  beliefs  from  the  early  times.  As,  for  instance,  when 
Shodo  Shonin  in  his  wanderings  came  here  and  “  opened 
up  ”  the  mountains  of  Nikko.  For  this  saintly  discoverer, 
dwelling  in  early  youth  among  sacred  caves,  and  a  de¬ 
vout  reverer  of  the  native  and  Buddhist  deities,  had 
long  dreamed  of  wondrous  things  on  distant  mountains,  of 
celestial  or  spiritual  beings,  visible  even  to  the  eye,  and 
pursued  his  search  according  to  holy  vows  and  under  ce¬ 
lestial  guidance. 


160 


BED  OF  THE  DAYAGAWA,  NIKKQ 


u 


Where  the  red  lacquer  bridge  now  goes  over  the  Da- 
yagawa,  Shodo  Shonin  first  crossed  upon  the  fairy  snake 
bridge,  which,  like  a  rainbow  spanning  the  hills,  was 
thrown  over  for  him  by  a  mysterious  colossal  god  of  the 
mountain.  Here,  a  few  yards  off,  he  built  the  shrine  in 
honor  of  his  helper,  the  “  great  King  of  the  Deep  Sand.” 
This  was  in  the  year  767  of  our  era;  and  in  782,  after 
much  previous  exploration,  he  reached  the  summit  of 
Nan-tai-san,  and  met  the  tutelary  gods  of  Nikko,  who 
promised  to  watch  over  the  welfare  of  Japan  and  the  prog¬ 
ress  of  the  new  religion.  These  three  gods  were  long 
worshiped  thereafter  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  on  the 
bank  of  the  lake  named  Chiuzenji,  by  him,  along  with 
the  Buddhist  incarnations  whose  temple  he  established 
there.  So  that  these  primordial  divinities  were  looked 
upon  by  certain  Buddhist  eyes  as  what  they  named  “  tem¬ 
porary  manifestations  ”  of  the  great  essences  known  as 
Amida,  Buddha,  and  Kuwan-on. 

Last  evening,  near  the  back  of  the  rock  upon  which  is 
the  tomb  of  Iyeyasu,  I  followed  some  zigzag  stone  steps 
that  lead  up  to  a  little  shrine,  dark  among  the  trees,  in 
which  is  the  figure  of  an  old  man  with  powerful  legs  — 
the  master  pilgrim  Enno-Sho-kaku.  Why  his  shrine 
was  exactly  there  I  have  not  clearly  made  out ;  but  cer¬ 
tainly,  as  a  mountain  spirit,  his  being  here  is  appropri¬ 
ate.  For,  born  a  miraculous  child,  he  loved  from  infancy 
the  solitariness  of  woods  far  up  the  mountains.  The  rain 
never  wet  him  ;  no  living  things  of  the  forest  were  ever 
hurt  by  him,  even  through  chance ;  he  lived,  as  they 
might,  on  nuts  and  berries,  clothed  in  the  tree’s  own 
dress,  of  the  tendrils  of  the  wistaria.  Thus  he  passed 
forty  years  among  mountains  and  waterfalls,  under  direc¬ 
tions  received  in  dreams,  to  bring  the  wild  places  beneath 
the  dominion  of  Buddha.  Two  hill  spirits  served  him 
and  provided  him  with  fuel  and  water.  The  life  of  na- 

163 


ture  became  his,  and  he  moved  through  water  or  through 
air  as  easily  as  his  mind  dwelt  in  the  present  and  in  the 
future. 

Naturally,  too,  when  he  touched  the  world  of  men  he 
was  maligned  and  persecuted ;  but  even  then,  when  ex¬ 
iled  to  an  island  in  the  sea,  he  could  fly  back  at  night  to 
revisit  his  mother,  or  ascend  his  beloved  mountains,  while 
submitting  obediently  in  the  daylight  to  the  presence  of 
his  guards.  Naturally,  too,  his  evil  days  came  to  an  end, 
and  he  was  freed,  and  finally  flitted  away  toward  China, 
and  has  never  reappeared.  With  him  in  the  little  shrine 
are  his  faithful  imps,  painted  red  and  green,  and  out  of 
the  darkness  his  wooden  image,  with  a  long  white  beard, 
looked  absolutely  real  in  the  rainy  twilight.  Enormous 
iron  sandals  hung  on  every  side,  offerings  of  pilgrims 
anxious  to  obtain  legs  as  sturdy  as  those  of  the  pilgrim 
patron.  Had  I  been  able  to  leave  my  own  I  should  have 
done  so,  for  never  have  I  felt  as  weakened  and  unen- 
ergetic  as  I  have  become  in  this  idle  climate.  We  could 
just  see  the  white  stone  steps  of  the  little  road  as  we 
came  down  the  steep  hill  through  the  wood  to  the  gate 
of  lyemitsu’s  tomb. 

August  16. 

The  languor  that  oppresses  me  does  not  disappear, 
and  I  live  with  alternations  of  exertion  that  reflect  the 
weather.  There  has  been  an  immense  amount  of  sun¬ 
shine  and  the  same  amount  of  rain,  compressing  into 
a  single  day  as  much  as  would  suffice  at  home  for 
weeks  of  summer  and  winter.  Suddenly,  from  hot  blue 
skies,  come  down  the  cloud  and  the  wet.  The  lovely 
little  hills  or  mountains  opposite  our  house  round  out, 
all  modeled  and  full,  in  glossy  green,  to  be  painted  in 
another  hour  with  thin  washes  of  gray,  thickened  with 
white,  as  in  the  single-colored  designs  of  the  old  Limoges 
enamels.  Then  their  edges  grow  sharp  and  thin,  and  are 

164 


pill 


MOUNTAINS  IN  FOG  BEFORE  OUR  HOUSE. 


IT 


stamped  against  further  mists,  like  pale  prints  of  the 
Japanese  designs,  making  me  see  those  pictures  increased 
to  life-size.  And  I  realize  how  accurate  these  are,  even 
to  the  enlarged  appearance  of  the  great  trees  which 
fringe  their  tops  and  edges,  as  these  are  seen  through 
the  broken,  wet  veil  of  moisture.  And  even  here,  again, 
I  am  puzzled  as  to  whether  art  has  helped  nature. 

August  1 7. 

Yesterday  I  suffered  seriously  from  the  heat.  I  had 
gone  to  the  little  flat  table-land  that  lies  to  the  north 
behind  our  house,  through  which  runs  a  small  road, 
untraveled  and  grass-grown,  connecting  somewhere  or 
other  with  the  road  of  the  great  temples.  I  had  in¬ 
tended  to  study  there,  for  several  reasons ;  one,  among 
others,  because  I  saw  every  day,  as  I  looked  through  my 
screens,  a  little  typical  landscape-picture  of  Japan.  Near 
by,  a  small  temple  shrine  all  vermilion  in  the  sun,  with 
heavy,  black,  oppressive  roof ;  then  a  stretch  of  flat  table¬ 
land,  overgrown  with  trees  and  bushes,  from  which  stood 
up  a  single  high  tree,  with  peaceful  horizontal  branches ; 
on  each  side,  conical  hills,  as  if  the  wings  of  a  stage- 
scene  ;  far  beyond,  a  tumble  of  mountains  behind  the 
great  depression  of  the  river  hidden  out  of  sight ;  and 
above,  and  farther  yet,  the  great  green  slopes  that  lead 
to  the  peak  ofNio-ho.  It  was  very  hot,  and  all  the 
clouds  seemed  far  away,  the  sun  very  high  in  the  early 
noon,  and  no  shade.  I  passed  the  new  priests’  houses  of 
the  old  temple  near  us,  where  are  billeted,  to  the  incon¬ 
venience  of  the  owners,  many  sailor  boys  sent  all  the 
way  from  the  navy  yard  of  Okotsuka,  so  that  they  escape 
the  cholera,  as  we  are  doing.  They  are  usually  washing 
their  clothes  in  the  torrent  that  runs  under  the  bridge  of 
three  carved  stones,  which  I  have  to  pass  to  get  into  the 
little  path,  frequented  by  gadflies,  that  takes  me  up  to 

167 


my  sketching-ground.  Were  it  not  for  the  amiably  ob¬ 
trusive  curiosity  of  these  youngsters  in  their  leisure  hours, 
I  should  pass  through  their  courtyard  into  the  shady 
spaces  near  the  little  temples  and  the  three-storied  pa¬ 
goda,  which  the  priests’  houses  adjoin. 

I  am  always  courteously  saluted  by  the  priests,  and 
one  of  them,  living  there  in  vacation,  I  know.  He  is  off 
duty  at  the  temples  of  Iyemitsu,  and  I  have  seen  him  at 
the  home  of  our  friends.  I  send  you  a  sketch  of  his  face, 
which  appears  to  me  impressed  by  sincerity  and  a  certain 
anxiety  very  sympathetic.  When  I  sketch  near  the  pa¬ 
goda  I  see  him  occasionally  ringing  the  hanging-bell  or 
cymbal,  with  the  same  step  and  air  of  half-unconscious 
performance  of  habitual  duty  that  I  remember  so  well  in 
Catholic  priests  whom  I  knew  as  a  boy. 

Here  the  memory  of  Shodo  Shonin  comes  up  again, 
with  a  confusion  of  intention  in  the  assembled  worship  of 
Buddhist  and  native  divinities.  For  the  “opener  of  moun¬ 
tains”  built  the  temple  here  to  the  same  god,  with  the 
never-ending  name,  whom  he  met  on  the  summit  of  Nan- 
tai-san.  And  the  adjoining  chapel,  dedicated  to  Kuwan- 
on,  means  that  she  was  in  reality  the  essential  being,  be¬ 
hind  the  temporary  manifestation,  that  assumed  the  name 
and  appearance  of  this  mountain  god, —  the  genius  loci. 
And  the  Latin  words  bring  back  the  recollection  of  cu¬ 
rious  stones  in  the  mossy  green  shade,  to  which  is  attached 
the  meaning  of  the  oldest  past;  for  they  are  “  male  ”  and 
“  female  ”  —  emblems  and  images  of  earliest  worship,  em¬ 
powered  to  remind,  and  perhaps  obscurely  to  influence. 

Seated  at  last  under  my  umbrella,  I  could  feel  the  hot 
moisture  rising  from  the  grass  beneath  me.  The  heated 
hills  on  each  side  wore  a  thin  interlacing  of  violet  in  the 
green  of  their  pines.  The  mountains  across  the  river  were 
frosted  in  the  sunlight,  with  the  thinnest  veil  of  a  glitter 
of  wet. 


1 68 


Between  them  great  walls  of  vapor  rose  from  the  hidden 
river,  twisting  into  draperies  that  slowly  crawled  up  the 
slopes  of  the  great  mountain.  Far  off,  its  top  was  capped 
with  cloud,  whose  mass  descended  in  a  shower  over  its 
face  and  between  its  peaks,  and  kept  all  its  nearer  side  in 
a  trembling  violet  shadow. 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  PRIEST. 


Above  the  peak  the  great  mass  of  fog  spread  to  the 
farthest  mountains,  letting  their  highest  tops  shine  through 
with  a  pale-blue  faintness  like  that  of  sky.  But  the  great 
back  of  the  long  slope  was  distinct,  and  of  a  vivid  green 
against  the  background  of  violet  mountains.  So  solid 
and  close-packed  it  looked  under  the  high  light  that  one 
might  forget  that  this  green  was  not  of  turf,  firm  under 

169 


foot,  but  was  a  trackless  waste  of  tall  grasses  high  as  a 
man’s  head.  Farther  on  against  the  northern  sky  the 
eastern  slope  was  golden  and  sharp.  In  the  highest  sky 
of  fiery  blue  large  cumulus  clouds  shone  above  and 
through  the  fog,  whose  ragged  edge  blew  like  a  great  flag 
toward  the  south.  The  little  temple  blazed  in  vermilion, 
one  side  all  lighted  up,  its  black-tiled  roof  hot  in  the  sun. 
In  the  shadow  of  its  porch  the  columns  and  entablature 
were  white  and  pale  gold  and  green. 

My  attempt  to  render  the  light  and  heat  lasted  for  two 
or  three  hours:  my  damp  umbrella  seemed  penetrated 
by  the  light,  my  skin  was  scorched  and  blistered,  and  a 
faint  dizziness  kept  warning  me  to  get  back  to  a  larger 
shade.  When  I  yielded,  I  was  only  just  able  to  reach  my 
welcome  mats,  saved  from  something  worse  by  my  very 
scorching.  Since  yesterday  I  have  been  ill;  not  sleeping, 
but  dreaming  uncomfortably  ;  and  visited  and  comforted, 
however,  by  our  fair  hostess  and  the  Doctor. 

Murmurs  of  Buddhistic  conversation  remain  in  my 
mind  :  vague  stories  of  life  in  Southern  monasteries,  of 
refined  ascetic  life,  of  sublimated  delicate  food,  of  gentle 
miraculous  powers,  known  to  the  favored  few  that  behold 
them  at  times ;  of  ascensions  and  disappearances  like 
those  of  the  pilgrim  saint  of  whom  I  was  telling  you  yes¬ 
terday —  all  of  which  talk  mingles  with  the  vague  intent 
of  my  painting.  For  I  had  proposed  to  make  my  studies 
serve  for  the  picture  of  the  “  Ascension  ”  ;  to  use  the 
clouds  and  the  wilderness  for  my  background ;  and  to  be, 
at  least  for  moments,  in  some  relation  to  what  I  have  to 
represent ;  that  is  to  say,  in  an  atmosphere  not  inimical, 
as  ours  is,  to  what  we  call  the  miraculous.  Here,  at  least, 
I  am  not  forced  to  consider  external  nature  as  separate 
and  opposed,  and  1  can  fall  into  moods  of  thought,— or,  if 
you  prefer,  of  feeling,— in  which  the  edges  of  all  things 


170 


OLD  PAGODA  NEAR  THE  PRIESTS*  HOUSES. 


blend,  and  man  and  the  outside  world  pass  into  each 
other. 

August  17. 

And  so,  often,  I  like  to  think  of  these  trees  and  rocks 
and  streams,  as  if  from  them  might  be  evolved  some 
spiritual  essence.  Has  not  f  akyamuni  said  that  all  (liv¬ 
ing)  beings  possess  the  nature  of  Buddha,  that  is  to  say, 
the  absolute  nature.  The  sun,  the  moon,  the  earth,  and 
the  innumerable  stars  contain  within  themselves  the  ab¬ 
solute  nature.  So  for  the  little  flowers,  the  grass,  the 
clouds  that  rise  from  the  waters,  the  very  drop  of  water 
itself;  for  they  are  begotten  of  nature  absolute,  and  all 
form  a  part  of  it,  however  great,  however  small.  Abso¬ 
lute  nature  is  the  essence  of  all  things,  and  is  the  same 
as  all  things.  This  absolute  nature  will  be  as  are  the 
waters  of  the  sea,  if  we  picture  it,  and  its  modes  will  be 
as  the  waves,  inseparable  from  the  waters.  Thus  the  ab¬ 
solute  and  all  things  will  be  identical,  inseparable  views 
of  the  same  existence.  This  nature  will  be  both  essence 
and  force,  and  appearance  and  manner.  And  so  my 
friends  here,  of  the  sect  which  holds  the  temple,  might 
teach  me  that  the  little  plants,  the  great  mountains,  and 
the  rushing  waters  can  become  Buddhas. 

In  these  pantheistic  sympathies  I  dimly  recall  that  an¬ 
other  sect  finds  three  great  mysteries  in  its  esoteric  view 
of  the  world.  The  wind  whistling  through  the  trees,  the 
river  breaking  over  its  rocks,  the  movements  of  man  and 
his  voice, — or,  indeed,  his  silence, —  are  the  expression  of 
the  great  mysteries  of  body,  of  word,  and  of  thought. 
These  mysteries  are  understood  of  the  Buddha,  but  evolu¬ 
tion,  cultivated  by  the  “  true  word,”  or  doctrine,  will  allow 
man,  whose  mysteries  are  like  the  mysteries  of  the  Bud¬ 
dhas,  to  become  like  unto  them. 

But  since  the  path  is  open  for  all  to  Buddhahood, —  since 
these  animals  that  pass  me,  this  landscape  about  me,  can 


A3 


become  divine, — why,  alas!  are  not  men  more  easily  car¬ 
ried  to  that  glorious  end  ?  It  is  because  we  are  living  in 
the  present ;  and  as  that  present  must  have  had  a  past, 
since  nothing  is  lost  and  nothing  disappears,  so  it  will 
have  a  future ;  and  that  future  depends  on  the  present 
and  on  the  past.  Changes  and  transformations  are  only 
a  “  play  ”  of  cause  and  effect,  since  spirit  and  matter  are 
one  in  absolute  nature,  which  in  its  essence  can  neither 
be  born  nor  be  dissolved.  Actual  life  is  absolutely  de¬ 
termined  by  the  influencing  action  of  merit  and  demerit 
in  past  existence,  as  the  future  will  be  determined  by 
present  causes;  so  that  it  is  possible  for  the  soul  to  pass 
through  the  six  conditions  of  the  infernal  being,  the  phan¬ 
tom,  the  beast,  the  demon,  the  human,  and  the  celestial, 
and,  through  painful  transmigration,  to  reach  the  supreme 
salvation  of  Nirvana.  Then  will  end  the  universal  meta¬ 
morphoses,  the  trials,  the  expiations,  the  unceasing  whirl¬ 
wind  of  life.  Illusion  will  cease,  and  reality  last,  in  the 
complete  calm  of  absolute  truth. 


174 


NIRVANA 


HAVE  I  told  you  my  story  of  the  word  Nirvana,  as 
used  by  the  reporter  at  Omaha,  who  managed  to 
interview  us  ?  The  association  of  a  reporter  with  any  of 
the  four  states  of  Nirvana  may  seem  impossible  to  you  — 
but  this  is  the  way  it  happened. 

Owing  to  A - 's  being  the  brother  of  the  president 

of  the  road,  we  were  naturally  suspected  of  business  de¬ 
signs  when  we  acknowledged  that  we  were  going  to  Ja¬ 
pan,  and,  in  my  shortsighted  wisdom,  I  thought  that  I 
should  put  to  rout  our  interviewer  by  “  allowing  ”  that 
the  purpose  of  our  going  was  to  find  Nirvana.  I  had 
misjudged  the  mind  of  the  true  reporter,  and  did  not  ex¬ 
pect  the  retort,  “Are  you  not  rather  late  in  the  season  ?” 
Whether  he  knew  or  “  builded  better,”  he  had  certainly 
pointed  out  the  probable  result.  I  often  recur  to  this 
episode  when,  as  now,  I  enjoy,  in  dreaming  action,  that 
Nirvana  which  is  called  conditioned  ;  that  state  of  the  ter¬ 
restrial  being  who  understands  truth  by  the  extinction  of 
passions,  but  who  is  yet,  indeed,  very  much  tied  to  the 
body  —  if  I  may  speak  so  lightly  of  what  is  a  contempla¬ 
tion  of,  and  an  absorption  in,  eternal  truth,  a  rest  in 
supreme  salvation. 

Of  all  the  images  that  I  see  so  often,  the  one  that 
touches  me  most — partly,  perhaps,  because  of  the  Eternal 
Feminine  —  is  that  of  the  incarnation  that  is  called  Kuwan- 
on,  when  shown  absorbed  in  the  meditations  of  Nirvana. 

i75 


You  have  seen  her  in  pictures,  seated  near  some  water¬ 
fall,  and  I  am  continually  reminded  of  her  by  the  beau¬ 
tiful  scenes  about  us,  of  which  the  waterfall  is  the  note 
and  the  charm.  Were  it  not  that  I  hate  sightseeing,  I 
should  have  made  pilgrimages,  like  the  good  Japanese,  to 
all  the  celebrated  ones  which  are  about.  Exercise,  how¬ 
ever,  during  the  day  is  difficult  to  me,  and  I  don’t  like 
being  carried,  and  the  miserable  horses  of  the  peasants 
are  awfully  slow  and  very  stumbly.  We  go  about  in 
single  file,  perched  on  the  saddles  upon  their  humped 
backs,  each  horse  led  by  the  owner,  usually  a  trousered 
peasant  girl.  Lately  on  our  visits  to  waterfalls  we  have 
passed  the  wide  bed  of  the  second  river,  which  makes  an 
island  of  our  mountain  —  a  great  mountain-river  bed  filled 
with  stones  and  boulders,  through  which  the  waters,  now 
very  low,  divide  into  rushing  torrents ;  while  in  the  win¬ 
ter  this  is  a  tremendous  affair,  and  in  flood-times  the  very 
boulders  are  carried  away.  Far  down  at  Imaichi,  some 
six' miles  off,  is  shown  one  of  the  long  row  of  stone  Bud¬ 
dhas,  several  hundred  in  number,  which  line  the  right 
bank  of  the  main  river,  the  Dayagawa,  near  the  deep 
pool  called  Kamman-ga-fuchi. 

It  was  there  that  I  drew  the  biggest  of  them  all,  on  one 
of  my  first  days  here,  a  statue  of  Jizo,  with  Nan-tai-san 
half  veiled  in  the  distance  behind  him  —  a  great  cedar 
shading  him,  and  all  but  the  little  path  and  the  bridge  of 
a  single  stone  overgrown  with  weeds  and  bushes.  These 
gods  along  the  river  are  all  ugly  and  barbarous, —  coun¬ 
try  gods,  as  it  were, —  alien  as  possible,  while  the  nature 
about  them,  though  strange,  is  not  so  far  away  from  me. 

Their  ugliness  was  accentuated  by  a  sort  of  efflores¬ 
cence,  or  moss  growth,  curled  and  ragged  by  weather, 
made  of  innumerable  slips  of  paper  pasted  upon  them  by 
troops  of  pilgrims  to  the  holy  places,  who  make  a  point  of 
thus  marking  off  their  visits  to  each  successive  sacred  ob- 

176 


STATUE  OF  OYA  JIZO. 


12 


ject.  Fortunately,  they  are  what  the  Japanese  call  “wet 
goods,”  that  is  to  say,  unprotected  by  roof  or  temple, 
and  the  rains  of  heaven  cleanse  them  and  leave  only  the 
black  and  white  of  the  lichens.  They  always  worried  me 
like  a  bad  dream  when  I  passed  them  in  the  evening,  on 
my  way  home  from  work,  and  I  can  sympathize  with 
the  superstition  which  makes  it  impossible  to  count  them. 
But  this  is  on  the  Dayagawa,  the  main  confluent  which 
rushes  down  from  Lake  Chiuzenji.  Our  path  led  through 
the  other  river,  over  causeways  and  bridges,  up  to  the  hills 
on  the  other  side,  and  to  a  high  moorland  from  which 
the  immense  southern  plain  and  distant  mountains  ap¬ 
peared  swimming  in  light.  Two  faint  blue  triangles  in 
the  air  were  the  peaks  of  Tsukuba ;  nearer  on  the  west, 
the  mountains  of  Nikko  were  covered  with  cloud,  through 
which  the  sunburst  poured  down  upon  their  bases. 

As  we  rode  we  passed  beneath  plantations  covered 
with  water,  so  that  their  mirror,  at  the  level  of  the  eye, 
reflected  the  mountains  and  clouds  and  upper  sky  in  a 
transparent  picture,  spotted  with  innumerable  tufts  of 
brilliant  green.  And  then  we  dismounted  at  a  little  tea¬ 
house,  and  sat  under  a  rustic  arbor,  while  our  feminine 
grooms,  stripping  to  the  waist,  wiped  and  sponged  their 
sweating  arm-pits  and  bosoms,  in  unconcernedness  of 
sex.  Yet  when  they  noticed  my  sketching  them,  as  if  I 
did  not  take  their  nakedness  for  granted,  sleeves  and 
gowns  were  rapidly  pulled  over  the  uncovered  flesh.  So 
true  it  is  that  conduct  depends  upon  the  kind  of  attention 
it  calls  for.  Nor  was  the  universal  standard  of  feminine 
propriety  unrespected  by  them,  when,  on  our  return,  my 
guide,  who  had,  in  every  possible  way  that  I  could  imag¬ 
ine,  expressed  her  adherence  to  the  ways  of  nature,  met 
with  the  disaster  of  having  her  back  hair  come  down  ;  for 
then,  with  a  shriek,  she  dropped  the  rein,  and  retired, 
blushing,  behind  the  nearest  tree,  where,  in  equal  hurry, 

179 


another  girl  guide  proceeded  to  console  her,  and  to  re¬ 
arrange  the  proper  structure  of  shining  black  hair  and 
ivory  pins. 

Then  we  descended  by  a  narrow  path,  over  which 
hung  tree-camellias,  still  spotted  with  their  last  white 
blossoms,  whose  edges  were  rusted  by  the  heat. 

The  main  fall  of  Urami-no-Taki  drops  into  a  deep 
basin,  edged  by  rocks,  from  a  hollow  in  the  highest  hill, 
over  which  hang  great  trees.  On  each  side  lesser  cas¬ 
cades  rush  or  tumble  over  the  rocky  faces,  and  under  the 
main  column  small  streams  slide  down,  or  drop  in  thin 
pillars  to  join  it.  There  is  a  path,  frequented  by  pil¬ 
grims,  which  passes  behind  and  underneath  the  fall,  so 
that  we  can  stand  behind  and  look  through  it,  whence 
its  name.  All  is  wilderness  ;  but  a  high  relief  of  the  pro¬ 
tector  Fudo,  guardian  and  friend  of  such  places,  is  carved 
on  the  rock  behind  the  falls,  and  shows  through  the 
rumpled  edges  of  the  water.  All  was  shade,  except 
where  the  sun  struck  in  the  emerald  hollow  above  the 
fall,  or  where  a  beam  lighted  up  here  and  there  a  patch 
of  the  great  and  small  cascades,  or  the  trees  and  rocks 
about  them.  And  here,  again,  the  intense  silence,  broken 
by  the  rush  of  the  waterfall,  recalled  the  pictures  of 
K’wan-on,  whose  meaning  and  whose  images  bring  back 
to  me  the  Buddhistic  idea  of  compassion.  The  deity, 
or  goddess,  seated  in  abstraction  by  the  falling  waters  of 
life,  represents,  I  suppose,  more  especially  an  ideal  of 
contemplation,  as  the  original  Indian  name  indicated, 
I  think ;  but  her  name  to-day  is  that  of  the  Compassion¬ 
ate  One. 

Of  the  divinity’s  many  incarnations  one  has  interested 
me  as  typical,  and  will  amuse  you.  It  is  when — in  the 
year  696  B.  c.,  though  the  precise  date  is  not  exactly 
material  —  this  power  is  born  as  a  girl,  daughter  to  one 
of  the  many  kings  of  China.  Then  follows  a  legend  like 

180 


MOUNTAIN  HORSES  OF  NlIvKO. 


12’ 


that  of  Saint  Barbara.  She  is  in  no  hurry  to  follow  her 
princess’s  duty  of  getting  married,  and  pleasing  her  par¬ 
ents  thereby.  She  is  satisfied  with  a  virgin  life,  and  makes 
delays  by  persuading  her  father  to  build  palaces  for  her 
bridal  to  come  ;  and  when  all  this  has  been  done,  and 
there  is  no  final  escape,  she  ends  by  an  absolute  refusal 
of  marriage.  At  which,  evidently  from  a.  long  exper¬ 
ience  of  the  uselessness  of  argument  with  her  sex,  her 
father  cuts  her  head  off,  and  I  regret  to  say  that  she 
thereupon  goes  to  Hell.  I  suppose  that  she  goes  there, 
because,  however  laudable  and  high  her  ideal  of  life  might 
have  been,  it  should  have  been  confined  within  the  views 
of  her  country,  that  is  to  say,  of  obedience  to  parents 
first  and  foremost.  However,  she  went  there,  and  put  up 
with  it,  and  that  so  admirably  that  the  divinity  who  rules 
the  place  was  obliged  to  dismiss  her,  for  her  contentment 
with  her  lot  was  spreading  as  an  example  to  the  damned, 
and  threatened  the  very  existence  of  Hell.  Since  then 
her  appearances  again  in  this  world  have  been  on  errands 
of  compassion  and  of  help.  Nor  is  this  constant  willing¬ 
ness  to  act  on  behalf  of  others,  and  thereby  to  leave  the 
realm  of  absolute  peace,  incompatible  with  that  continual 
contemplation  of  which  her  pictures  or  images  offer  an 
ideal,  enchanting  to  me. 

For,  indeed,  the  fourth  Nirvana  is  that  state  of  truth  in 
which  supreme  salvation  is  not  distinct  from  sorrowful 
transmigration,  and  for  these  blessed  beings  this  is  Nir¬ 
vana  ;  that,  possessing  the  fullness  of  wisdom,  they  can¬ 
not  desire  to  delay  in  transmigration,  nor  do  they  reenter 
Nirvana,  because  they  feel  the  extreme  of  compassion 
for  other  beings. 

For,  in  the  Buddhist  doctrine,  compassion  is  the  first 
of  all  virtues,  and  leads  and  is  the  essence  of  the  five 
cardinal  virtues,  which  are — note  the  sequence  —  pity, 
justice,  urbanity,  sincerity,  and  wise  behavior.  To  the 

183 


Buddhist,  the  pitiless  are  the  ungodly.  Hence  the  teach¬ 
ing  of  kindliness  to  all  living  beings,  which  is  one  of  the 
“  pure  precepts  ”  of  the  “  greater  vehicle,”  and  through 
which  all  beings  can  obtain  salvation. 

For  the  happiness,  which  is  the  aim  of  Buddhism,  is 
not  limited  to  the  individual,  but  is  to  be  useful,  to  be 
of  profit,  to  all  mankind  —  a  happiness  which  can  only 
be  moral,  but  which  must  act  on  the  body  as  intimately 
as  the  soul  is  united  with  it. 

These  are  the  aspirations  of  higher  Buddhism  —  its 
supreme  end,  to  achieve  the  happiness  of  this  life  and 
of  the  future  one  —  of  the  individual  and  of  humanity, 
but  differently,  according  to  times  and  circumstances  and 
human  powers.  In  its  full  ideal  here  below  civil  and  re¬ 
ligious  society  would  be  the  same ;  the  continual  rest  of 
Nirvana  becoming  finally  inseparable  from  our  transmi¬ 
grations —  our  passions  living  together  with  complete 
wisdom,  and  our  further  existence  not  demanding,  then, 
another  world.  And  if  civilization  shall  have  finally  per¬ 
fected  the  world  of  mind  and  the  world  of  matter,  we 
shall  have  here  below  Nirvana,  and  we  shall  dwell  in  it 
as  Buddhas. 


184 


SKETCHING.— THE  FLUTES  OF  IYEYASU 


August  24. 

IN  the  afternoon  I  go  through  the  little  road  toward 
the  west,  whose  walls  are  spotted  with  mosses  and 
creepers,  and  where  the  gutters  are  filled  with  clear, 
noisy  torrents,  echoing  in  answer  to  the  general  sound 
of  waters.  Rarely  do  I  meet  any  one — perhaps  some 
trousered  peasant  girls,  drowsily  leading  pack-horses; 
or  naked  peasants,  with  muscles  of  yellow  bronze, 
carrying  brushwood  on  their  backs.  The  sun  is  at  its 
hottest.  Above  the  beat  of  the  waters  rises  the  per¬ 
petual  strident,  interminable  cry  of  the  locusts,  like  the 
shrill  voice  of  mourners  in  this  abode  of  tombs — the 
voice  of  dust  and  aridity.  I  turn  a  corner  of  high  wall 
and  tall  trees  and  enter,  through  a  dilapidated  gateway 
and  up  some  high  steps  in  the  wall,  an  open  space,  whose 
unknown  borders  are  concealed  behind  the  enormous 
trunks  of  cryptomeria.  For  weeks  carpenters  have  been 
slowly  repairing  a  temple  building  in  this  court,  the  big 
beams  and  planks  of  freshly-cut  wood  perfuming  the 
place  with  the  smell  of  cedar.  In  the  grass  and  on  the 
broken  pavement  lie  moldering  fragments  of  the  older 
work,  still  with  a  waxy  covering  of  the  red  lacquer  which 
holds  together  the  dark,  dusty  fibers. 

A  little  bell-tower,  lacquered  red,  stands  near  the  other 
entrance,  to  which  I  pass.  That  one  has  its  wall  and  high 
fence  all  lacquered  red,  and  a  gateway  also  red  and 
spotted  with  yellow  and  gray  mosses.  Down  its  big 
steps  I  go,  seeing  just  before  me,  through  the  gigantic 

185 


trees  and  their  gray  and  red  trunks,  the  face  of  the  tall 
pagoda,  which  flanks  one  side  of  the  court  before  Iyeyasu, 
and  whose  other  side  turns  toward  the  avenue  of  Iye- 
mitsu.  The  road  upon  which  I  come  is  the  avenue  of 
Iyeyasu.  Three  different  slopes  lead  within  it  to  the  paved 
court,  where  stands  the  high  Torii  of  stone,  through 
which  one  goes  by  the  middle  path  to  the  high  steps 
and  the  wall,  the  boundary  of  the  temple.  Two  great 
banks,  blocked  with  great  dressed  stones,  separate  the  three 
paths  —  the  central  path  being  cut  into  wide  steps  which 
lead  up  to  the  Torii.  On  each  of  these  masses  of  earth 
and  masonry  grow  great  cryptomeria  trees,  each  of  their 
trunks  almost  filling,  from  side  to  side,  the  entire  width 
of  the  surface.  They  are  planted  irregularly.  As  the 
further  ends  of  the  banks  are  less  high  from  the  ground, 
I  climb  up,  and  sit  to  sketch  against  one  of  the  ragged 
and  splintered  trunks.  For  all  these  late  afternoons  but 
one  all  has  been  the  same.  Far  above  me,  through  the 
needle  branches  of  bright  or  shadowy  green,  large  white 
clouds  roll  and  spread  in  a  brilliant,  blotty,  wet,  blue  sky. 
The  court  is  framed  in  dark  green,  all  above  dazzling  in 
light.  The  great  Torii  stands  in  the  half  shade  — the 
edge  of  its  upper  stone  shining  as  if  gilded  with  yellow 
moss,  and  stains  of  black  and  white  and  rusty  red  con¬ 
trasting  with  the  delicate  gilded  inscriptions  incised  on 
the  lower  part  of  the  two  supporting  columns. 

Beyond,  the  white  wall  and  steps  of  the  temple  inclo¬ 
sure  are  crowned  with  white  stone  palings  and  a  red 
lacquer  wall  behind  them,  and  the  red  lacquer  and 
bronzed-roofed  gateway.  Here  and  there  gold  glitters 
on  the  carvings  and  on  the  ends  of  its  many  roof-beams. 
Near  it  the  great  gray  tree-trunks  are  spaced,  and  out 
of  the  green  branches  shows  the  corner  of  the  stable  of 
the  Sacred  Horses.  Its  gray  walls  are  spotted  in  places 
with  gold  and  color.  Beyond  it  are  the  red  walls  of 

1 86 


OUR  LANDLORD  THE  BUDDHIST  PRIEST. 


one  of  the  treasure  houses,  made  of  beams  with  slanting 
edges ;  and  in  the  gable  under  its  black  eaves  two  sym¬ 
bolic  animals,  the  elephant  and  the  tapir,  are  carved  and 
painted  gray  and  white  on  the  gilded  wall.  At  this  dis¬ 
tance  the  bands  of  many-colored  ornament  make  a  glim¬ 
mering  of  nameless  color.  Farther  back  in  the  trees  spots 
of  heavy  black  and  shining  gold  mark  the  roofs  of  other 
buildings.  The  great  trees  near  me  almost  hide  the  great 
pagoda,  and  I  can  see  of  it  only  a  little  red,  and  the  green 
under  its  many  eaves,  which  melts  like  a  haze  into  the 
green  of  the  trees. 

All  these  effects  of  color  and  shape  seem  but  as  a  deco¬ 
ration  of  the  trees,  and  as  modes  of  enhancing  their  height 
and  their  stillness.  The  great  court  becomes  nothing  but 
a  basin  with  highly-finished  edges,  sunk  into  the  mass  of 
mountain  greenery.  The  Torii,  alone,  stands  lonely  and 
mysterious.  On  the  space  between  its  upper  stone  beams 
is  placed  a  great  blue  tablet  with  gold  letters  that  desig¬ 
nate  the  sacred  posthumous  name  of  Iyeyasu. 

It  is  late  in  the  year,  and  the  place  is  no  longer  filled 
with  pilgrims.  I  look  down,  occasionally,  on  a  few  strag¬ 
glers  who  come  up  the  steps  below  me  —  a  few  pilgrims 
in  white  dresses  ;  peasants,  sometimes  with  their  child¬ 
ren  ;  Japanese  tourists,  who,  even  here,  at  home,  seem  out 
of  place.  This  afternoon  a  couple  of  women,  earnestly 
whispering,  sailed  across  the  court  and  turned  the  corner 
of  the  avenue  of  Iyemitsu  - — with  toes  turned  in,  as  is  the 
proper  thing  in  this  land  of  inversion.  Their  dresses  of 
gray  and  brown  and  black  had  all  the  accentuated  refine¬ 
ment  of  simplicity  in  color  which  is  the  character  of  good 
taste  here,  and  which  gives  one  the  gentle  thrill  of  new 
solutions  of  harmony.  Our  own  absurdities  were  not  un¬ 
known  to  them,  for  their  velvet  slits  of  eyes  were  partly 
hid  under  eye-glasses,  in  emulation  of  Boston  or  Germany. 
They  might  have  been  ladies  :  I  am  not  sufficiently  clear 

189 


yet  as  to  limits :  perhaps  they  were  gci-shas,  who  now,  I 
understand,  learn  German  and  affect  the  intellectual  look 
of  nearsightedness.  If  they  were,  they  were  far  above  the 
two  little  creatures  that  posed  for  me  yesterday  —  with 
all  the  impatience  of  girls  who,  knowing  what  it  was  all 
about,  still  could  not  put  up  with  the  slow  ways  of  Euro¬ 
pean  work,  when  their  own  artists  would  have  been  as 
agile  and  rapid  and  sketchy  as  themselves. 

Th c  gci-shas  are  one  of  the  institutions  of  Japan, —  a  re¬ 
minder  of  old,  complete  civilizations  like  that  of  Greece. 
They  are,  voluntarily,  exiles  from  regular  society  and 
family,  if  one  can  speak  of  consent  when  they  are  usually 
brought  up  to  their  profession  of  the  “  gay  science  ”  from 
early  girlhood.  They  cultivate  singing  and  dancing,  and 
often  poetry,  and  all  the  accomplishments  and  most  of 
the  exquisite  politeness  of  their  country.  They  are  the 
ideals  of  the  elegant  side  of  woman.  To  them  is  intrusted 
the  entertainment  of  guests  and  the  solace  of  idle  hours. 
They  are  the  hetairai  of  the  old  Greeks  —  and  sometimes 
they  are  all  that  that  name  implies.  But  no  one  has  the 
right  to  assume  it  from  their  profession,  any  more  than 
that  all  liberties  are  bordered  by  possible  license. 

The  two  who  consented  to  pose  for  me,  at  the  same 
price  and  no  more  than  I  should  have  paid  them  had  I 
called  them  in  to  entertain  me  and  my  guests  with  singing 
and  dancing,  were,  the  one  a  town,  the  other  a  country 
girl ;  and  little  by  little  they  showed  the  difference,  at 
first  very  slight  to  a  foreigner,  by  all  the  many  little 
things  which  obtain  everywhere.  It  was  a  source  of  quiet 
amusement  for  me  to  see  them  posture,  in  what  they  call 
their  dances,  in  the  very  room  of  our  landlord  the  priest’s 
house,  where  I  have  so  often  watched  him  sitting  while 
his  pupil  bent  over  his  writing,  an  antique  picture,  like 
so  many  Eastern  scenes  of  the  ideal  of  contemplative  mo¬ 
nastic  study.  But  our  little  priest  is  away,  on  service  at 


190 


the  temple  of  Iyemitsu,  and  his  house  is  kept  for  him  in 
his  absence  by  some  devout  lady  parishioner,  who  lent 
us  the  apartment  more  convenient  than  ours,  and  who  un¬ 
doubtedly  shared  in  the  amusement  herself.  And  I  asked 
myself  if  there  had  been  a  secret  ceremony  of  purifica¬ 
tion  afterwards. 

I  saw,  too,  lingering  at  the  corner  of  Iyemitsu,  the  litter 
of  a  great  lady,  said  to  be  the  beauty  of  the  court ;  but  I 
was  content  to  have  her  remain  mysterious  to  me,  and 
tried  not  to  regret  my  indolence,  when  my  companion 
twitted  me  with  his  presentation  to  her,  and  to  associate 
her  only  with  the  clear  porcelains  that  bear  her  princely 
name.  And  then,  again,  the  priests  of  the  temple  of  Iye- 
yasu  came  down  to  meet  some  prince,  looking  like  great 
butterflies  in  green  and  yellow,  and  capped  with  their 
shining  black  hats.  The  youngest  waved  his  fan  at  me 
in  recognition,  and  gaily  floated  back  up  the  high  white 
steps  and  into  the  sunny  inclosures  beyond,  more  and 
more  like  some  winged  essence. 

Then  the  temple  attendants  brushed  with  brooms  the 
mosses  of  the  pavement  about  the  Torii,  and  the  gates 
were  closed.  And  I  listened,  until  the  blaze  of  the  sun 
passed  under  the  green  film  of  the  trees,  to  the  fluting  of 
the  priests  in  the  sanctuary  on  the  hill.  It  was  like  a 
hymn  to  nature.  The  noise  of  the  locusts  had  stopped 
for  a  time ;  and  this  floating  wail,  rising  and  falling  in  un¬ 
known  and  incomprehensible  modulations,  seemed  to  be¬ 
long  to  the  forest  as  completely  as  their  cry.  The  shrill 
and  liquid  song  brought  back  the  indefinite  melancholy  that 
one  has  felt  with  the  distant  sound  of  children’s  voices, 
singing  of  Sundays  in  drowsy  rhythms.  But  these  sounds 
belonged  to  the  place,  to  its  own  peculiar  genius  —  of  a 
lonely  beauty,  associated  with  an  indefinite  past,  little  un¬ 
derstood  ;  with  death,  and  primeval  nature,  and  final  rest. 


The  last  beams  of  the  sunset  made  emerald  jewels  of 
the  needles  in  the  twigs  above  me  —  made  red  velvet  of 
the  powdery  edges  of  broken  bark,  when  the  distant  flutes 
ceased,  and  I  left  my  study. 

As  I  came  out  from  the  giant  trees  a  great  wave  of 
the  funereal  song  of  the  locusts  passed  through  the  air, 
leaving  me  suddenly  in  a  greater  silence  as  I  came  home. 
Then  I  could  hear  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  sound  of  our 
little  waterfall  in  the  garden  as  I  stretched  myself  at  the 
flattest  on  the  mats,  and  Kato  brought  the  tea  and 
put  it  beside  me. 


192 


SKETCHING.— THE  PAGODA  IN  RAIN. 


August  25. 


HIS  afternoon  I  returned  to  the  entrance  of  Iyeyasu, 


X  and  sketched  under  the  great  trees  of  the  central 
avenue.  The  great  white  clouds  were  there  again  in 
the  blue  above,  colored  as  with  gold  where  they  showed 
below  through  the  trees ;  then  they  came  nearer,  then 
they  melted  together;  then  suddenly  all  was  veiled, 
the  rain  came  down  in  sheets,  and  I  was  glad  of  the 
refuge  of  the  tea  booths  along  the  eastern  wall.  It 
was  late,  almost  evening;  no  one  there;  a  few  pilgrims 
and  attendants  and  priests  scurried  away  through  the 
court,  disappearing  with  bare  reddened  legs  and  wet 
clogs  around  the  corners  of  the  avenues.  And  the  rain 
persisted,  hanging  before  me  like  a  veil  of  water.  I  had 
in  front,  as  I  sat  in  the  booths,  already  damp  and  gusty 
with  drafts,  the  face  of  the  tall  red  pagoda  behind  its 
stone  balustrade  and  at  right  angles  to  the  great  Torii 
that  I  had  been  painting.  The  great  trees  were  all  of  one 
green,  their  near  and  far  columns  flattened  out  with  the 
branches  into  masses  of  equal  values.  Through  them, 
below,  in  the  few  openings  to  the  west,  the  sky  was 
colored  with  the  sunset,  as  if  it  were  clear  far  over  Nan- 
tai-san.  The  gold  of  the  roofs’  edges  and  of  the  painted 
carvings  below  was  light  and  pale  as  the  sky  far  away. 
Higher  up  the  gold  was  bright  and  clear  under  the  rain, 
which  made  it  glisten  ;  it  glowed  between  the  brackets  of 
the  lower  cornices  and  paled  like  silver  higher  up.  All  the 
innumerable  painted  carvings  and  projections  and  orna- 


13 


193 


ments  looked  pale  behind  the  rain,  while  the  great  red 
mass  grew  richer  as  it  rose,  and  the  bronze  roofs,  freshly 
washed,  were  blacker,  and  the  green  copper  glistened, 
like  malachite,  on  the  edges  of  the  vermilion  rails,  or  on 
the  bells  which  hung  from  the  roof  corners,  against  the 
sky  or  against  the  trees.  The  green,  wet  mosses  spotted 
with  light  the  stone  flags  below,  or  glowed  like  a  fairy 
yellow  flame  on  the  adjoining  red  lacquer  of  the  temple 
fence,  so  drenched  now  that  I  could  see  reflected  in  it  the 
white  divisions  and  still  whiter  lichens  of  the  stone  balus¬ 
trade.  Below  it  the  great  temple  wall  was  blotched  with 
dark  purple  and  black  lichens,  and  the  columns  of  the 
Torii  were  white  at  the  bottom  with  mosses.  Its  upper 
cross-arm  glistened  yellow  with  their  growths  as  if  it  had 
caught  the  sun.  But  the  heavy  rain  was  drenching  all  ; 
and  now  from  all  the  roofs  of  the  pagoda  poured  lines  of 
water,  the  one  within  the  other,  the  highest  describing 
a  great  curve  that  encircled  all  the  others,  and  the  whole 
high  tower  itself,  as  if  with  a  lengthened  aureole  of  silver 
drops.  It  was  as  if  water  had  poured  out  from  the  foun¬ 
tain  basins,  one  above  the  other,  which  the  Italian  Renais¬ 
sance  liked  to  picture  on  tall  pilasters,  even  as  this  one 
was  profiled  against  the  sky  and  distant  rain.  Below,  a 
yellow  torrent  covered  the  great  court  with  an  eddying 
lake,  and  its  course  rushed  down  the  great  steps  or  made 
a  crested,  bounding  line  along  the  gutters  by  the  walls. 
I  watched  for  a  time  the  beautiful  curves  dropping  from 
the  roofs  of  the  tower,  until  all  grew  dark  and  my  coolie 
arrived  to  carry  paint  box  and  easel,  and  we  managed 
to  get  home,  with  sketching  umbrellas,  wet,  however, 
through  every  layer  of  clothing. 


194 


FROM  NIKKO  TO  KAMAKURA 


Nikko,  August  27. 


ESTERDAY,  I  went  out  in  another  afternoon  of 


JL  blazing  sunlight,  up  to  the  corner  of  the  temple 
inclosure  and  along  its  outside  edge,  where  the  rocks  of 
the  mountain,  covered  with  trees,  make  a  great  vague 
wall.  Under  the  damp  trees  runs  a  path  paved  with 
small  blocks  of  stone,  slippery  with  moss,  or,  when  bare, 
smoothed  by  ages  of  treading.  This  road  leads  to  the 
little  cascade  which  supplies  the  sacred  water-tank  of  the 
temple  of  Iyeyasu,  that  square  block  of  water  under  the 
gilded  and  painted  canopy  in  the  great  courtyard. 

The  waterfall  drops  over  rocks  into  a  hollow  between 
the  hills ;  high  trees  stand  along  its  edge  near  a  black 
octagonal  shrine,  with  great  roof,  green  and  yellow  with 
moss.  On  this  side  of  the  water,  a  diminutive  shrine, 
red-painted,  with  columns  and  architrave  of  many  colors 
and  a  roof  of  thatch  all  green,  out  of  which  are  growing 
the  small  stems  of  young  trees.  In  front,  a  Torii,  just 
tall  enough  to  pass  under,  of  gray  stone,  all  capped  and 
edged  with  green,  velvety  moss.  A  curved  stone,  cush¬ 
ioned  with  moss,  in  front  of  it,  spans  the  water-course 
that  gives  escape  to  the  waters  of  the  pool.  The  doors 
of  the  shrine  are  closed,  as  if  to  make  more  solitary  yet 
the  quiet  of  the  little  hollow. 

Higher  up,  past  the  black  building  and  above  high 
steps,  on  a  platform  edged  by  walls,  stand  black  build¬ 
ings,  shrines  of  Buddhist  divinities,  whose  golden  bodies 
I  can  see  through  the  grating  of  the  unfastened  doors. 


I  feel  their  amiable  presence,  while  I  sit  painting  in  the 
damp  sunlight,  and  the  murmur  of  the  waters  seems  their 
whispered  encouragement. 

On  my  return  I  looked  again  toward  the  abrupt  rocky 
hill  to  find  a  little  monument  we  had  passed  at  its  foot, 
just  off  the  road.  Through  the  inevitable  Torii  a  little 
path  of  rough  flagging,  all  broken  up  and  imbedded  in 
moss,  leads  across  the  small  bridge  of  two  large  stones, 
one  of  whose  parapets  is  gone,  and  up  high  steps,  half 
natural,  to  a  little  altar  of  big  stones  with  a  heavy  balus¬ 
trade  around  three  sides.  A  little  stone  shrine  with  a 
roof  stands  upon  it,  and  behind  it  a  tall  gray  rock  upon 
which  is  incised  and  gilded  a  device  of  five  disks  forming 
a  circle.  All  around  about  the  path  and  shrine  are  trees 
covered  with  moss ;  the  rocks,  the  shrine,  the  path,  are 
spotted  with  green  and  yellow  velvet ;  all  looks  as  if 
abandoned  to  nature, —  all  but  the  gilded  armorial  bear¬ 
ings  in  the  mossy  stone,  which  I  take  to  be  those  of  the 
divinized  mortal  in  whose  honor  this  little  record  has 
been  built,  Ten-jin  Sama,  known  and  worshiped  by  every 
schoolboy  in  Japan.  He  is  the  patron  of  learning  and 
of  penmanship,  and  was  during  his  life  a  great  scholar 
and  minister  of  state  under  the  name  of  Michizane.  This 
was  just  before  the  year  nine  hundred.  A  faithful  minis¬ 
ter,  a  learned  and  just  man,  he  naturally  gave  great  um¬ 
brage,  especially  to  a  younger  associate  whose  sister  was 
Empress,  and  who  succeeded  through  malicious  slander 
in  bringing  about  Michizane’s  banishment. 

In  his  place  of  exile,  separated  from  wife  and  children, 
he  died  two  years  later.  There,  I  suppose,  he  rode  about 
on  the  saddled  bull,  upon  which  Yosai  has  placed  him  in 
his  drawings,  as  also  he  was  seen  by  Motonobu  in  a 
dream,  of  which  I  have  a  drawing.  There  the  great  artist 
has  represented  him,  faithful,  I  suppose,  to  what  he  really 
saw,  as  a  younger  man  than  he  really  could  have  been, 

196 


galloping  swiftly  and  bending  down  to  avoid  the  branches 
of  the  trees  above. 

Bulls  of  bronze  and  marble  adorn  his  temple  in  Kioto, 
recalling  how  the  bull  that  drew  him  to  the  cemetery 
refused  to  go  further  than  a  certain  spot,  where  he  was 
buried  in  a  grave  dug  hastily.  Misfortune  and  remorse 
followed  his  enemies,  with  the  death  of  the  Imperial  heir; 
so  that  the  Emperor,  revoking  his  banishment,  reinstalled 
the  dead  man  in  the  honors  of  his  office,  and  bestowed  a 
high  rank  upon  his  ghost.  Since  then  his  worship  has 
grown,  as  I  said  above. 

As  you  see,  the  Mikado  has  been  the  fountain  of  honor 
for  this  world  and  the  next;  and  I  cannot  help  being  re¬ 
minded  of  the  constant  relations  of  Chinese  and  Japanese 
thought  in  this  unity — -this  constant  joining  of  that  which 
we  separate.  The  forms  of  China  may  be  more  “bureau¬ 
cratic”  ;  no  such  national  prejudices  and  feelings  can  be¬ 
long  to  the  idea  of  the  sovereign  there  as  must  exist  in 
Japan,  with  a  dynasty  of  rulers  as  Japanese  as  Japan 
itself.  But  there  has  been  here,  as  there,  a  sort  of  natural 
duty  in  the  Government  to  look  after  all  the  relations  of 
those  intrusted  to  its  care.  In  China,  all  religion  or  reli¬ 
gions  must  depend  upon  the  sanction  of  the  ruling  powers; 
nothing  is  too  great  or  too  small  to  be  satisfied  with ; 
official  approval  may  attend  the  worship  of  some  local 
heroine,  official  disapproval  may  be  shown  to  some  exag¬ 
gerations  of  Taoist  superstitions.  The  source  of  this  right 
and  this  duty  is  always  the  idea  that  in  the  ruler  all  is 
centered ;  he  is  responsible  to  Heaven,  and  is  the  tie  be¬ 
tween  the  powers  above  and  the  deities  below.  Hence 
there  is  nothing  absurd  in  his  following  the  governed 
after  death. 

In  Japan,  the  forms  of  this  power  may  be  different,  but 
its  workings  will  be  similar,  and  hero-worship,  combined 
with  the  respect  and  worship  of  ancestors,  has  had  a  most 

TO* 

13  197 


important  part  in  the  development  of  life  here,  in  en¬ 
couraging  patriotism  and  lofty  ideas,  and  in  stimulating 
the  chivalrous  feeling,  the  ideas  of  honor,  that  seem  to  me 
the  peculiar  note  of  the  Japanese.  However  misapplied, 
however  mistaken,  however  barbarous  some  forms  of  these 
ideas  may  appear  to  us,  I  cannot  make  for  myself  a  defin¬ 
ition  of  the  national  character,  nor  see  a  clue  to  many  of 
their  actions  unless  I  bear  in  mind  the  ruling  power  of 
this  feeling.  While  we  are  in  this  place,  where  lyeyasu’s 
name  is  so  important,  let  me  cite  a  trifling  anecdote. 

It  is  said  that  on  some  occasion  he  accompanied  Hide- 
yoshi,  the  great  Taiko  Sama,  each  with  few  attendants, 
upon  some  visit,  and  all  were  afoot.  Now,  among  the 
retinue  of  Iyeyasu  was  one  Honda,  a  man  of  preternatural 
strength,  who  hinted  to  his  master  that  this  might  be 
an  opportunity  for  an  attack  upon  his  great  rival.  But 
Taiko  guessed  the  danger,  and,  turning  round,  said  to 
Iyeyasu  :  “  My  sword  is  heavy,  for  me  unaccustomed  to 
walking,  so  may  I  not  ask  your  servant  to  carry  it  for 
me?”  For  Taiko  knew  that  it  would  have  been  con¬ 
sidered  a  disgrace  to  attack  a  man  unarmed  when  he 
had  intrusted  his  sword,  not  to  his  own  servant,  but  to 
the  servant  of  his  enemy.  And  Iyeyasu  understood  this 
appeal  to  the  idea  of  honor. 

August  28. 

Two  more  days  and  we  shall  be  gone.  As  I  sketch  in 
the  temples  or  about  them,  everything  seems  more  beau¬ 
tiful  as  it  grows  to  be  more  a  part  of  my  daily  existence. 
Though  I  am  perpetually  harassed  through  feeling  that  I 
cannot  copy  everything,  and  through  trying  to  force  my 
memory  to  grasp  so  as  to  retain  the  multitudinous  details 
of  the  architectural  decoration,  I  have  drawn  the  curve  of 
this,  and  the  patterns  of  that,  and  noted  the  colors,  but  I 
wonder,  if  the  thread  gets  loosened  that  holds  them  to¬ 
gether,  whether  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  separate  one  from 

198 


another  in  their  entanglement.  And  then  I  still  do  not 
wish  to  work.  There  are  so  many  places  that  I  should 
like  to  look  at  again  without  the  oppression  of  an  ob¬ 
ligatory  record. 

This  evening  I  must  take  another  look  at  the  neglected 
graves  of  the  followers  of  Iyemitsu  who  committed  sui¬ 
cide,  as  my  Japanese  account  has  it,  “that  they  might 
accompany  him  in  his  dark  pilgrimage  to  the  future 
world.”  At  least  it  says  this  of  Hotta  Masemori  and  of 
three  others ;  while  the  graves,  as  I  remember  them,  are 
twenty-one  in  number,  and  about  this  I  have  never  thought 
to  ask,  but  I  must  do  so.  And  then  there  may  have 
been  retainers  of  retainers.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  me  any¬ 
how  to  set  down  at  least  one  name  and  to  help  to  keep 
this  memory  clear  when  I  think  of  the  neglected  spot  in 
which  they  lie.  It  is  not  far  from  that  part  of  the  land 
where  stood  the  residence  of  their  master’s  family,  now 
destroyed,  through  the  days  of  turbulence  which  closed 
the  last  moments  of  their  reign.  Broken  fragments  of 
fencing  still  lean  against  the  little  inclosures  of  stone 
posts,  balustrade,  and  gate  that  surround  each  memorial 
pillar.  They  stand  in  two  rows  in  a  little  clearing,  the 
valley  sunk  behind  them,  hidden  in  part  by  much  wild 
growth. 

O- - was  telling  us  some  little  while  ago  of  the  feudal 

habit  which  gave  to  a  chieftain  the  vow  of  certain  re¬ 
tainers  who  undertook  to  follow  him  faithfully  even  be¬ 
yond  the  grave.  It  was  expected  of  them  in  war  that 
they  should  be  about  him  sharing  in  his  struggle,  and  if 
he  died  in  peace,  near  or  far,  they  should  be  ready  to  go 
too. 

And  as  death  is  the  most  important  thing  in  life,  I  can¬ 
not  help  thinking  over  the  condition  of  mind  of  any  one 
who  looked  forward  to  such  a  limitation  of  its  lease. 

When  age  had  changed  the  view  of  life,  had  created 


199 


more  ties,  more  duties,  had  made  the  term  nearer  and 
more  capricious,  while  everything  else  became  more  fixed, 
did  this  bond,  with  its  promise  of  payment  to  be  met  at 
any  moment’s  demand,  become  a  heavy  burden  of  debt  ?  I 
can  occasionally  conjure  up  a  picture  —  perhaps  erroneous, 
because  my  imagination  of  the  circumstances  may  displace 
them,— of  some  older  man  settled  in  pleasant  places, 
rested  in  secure  possessions,  with  dependants,  with  friends, 
with  affections  around  his  life,  learning  at  any  moment  of 
the  probability  that  the  call  might  come.  He  might  be 
summoned  from  any  festivity  or  joy  as  if  by  a  knocking 
at  the  door.  How  curiously  he  must  have  watched  the 
runners  of  the  mail  who  might  be  bringing  into  his  town 
the  news  from  the  court,  or  wheresoever  this  other  life — 
which  to  all  purposes  was  his  own  — was  perhaps  ebbing 
away.  How  then  he  would  have  known  what  to  do,  even 
to  its  most  minute  detail,  and  be  but  part  of  a  ceremonial 
that  he  himself  would  direct.  Vague  memories  come  up 
to  me  of  places  set  apart  in  the  garden,  and  the  screens 
and  the  hangings  and  the  lights  that  belonged  to  the  vol¬ 
untary  ordeal.  But  as  I  keep  on  thinking,  I  feel  more 
certain  that  my  fancy  displaces  the  circumstances  of 
former  times  and  of  a  different  civilization.  For  instance, 
the  concentration  of  the  feudal  territory,  habits  of  clan¬ 
ship,  the  constant  attendance,  must  have  narrowed  the 
circle  and  made  the  individual  more  like  a  part  of  one 
great  machinery,  one  great  family,  than  he  can  ever  be 
again.  The  weakness,  the  insufficiency  of  the  individual, 
has  been  stiffened  by  the  importance  of  the  family,  of  the 
clan,  as  a  basis  of  society  ;  and  I  could  almost  say  that  I 
discern  in  this  one  main-spring  of  the  peculiar  courtesy 
of  this  nation,  which  seems  to  go  along  with  a  great  feel¬ 
ing  of  a  certain  freedom,  so  that  the  obedience  of  the  in¬ 
ferior  does  not  seem  servile.  The  servant  who  has  done 
his  duty  of  respectful  service  seems  afterward  ready  to 


200 


take  any  natural  relation  that  may  turn  up.  The  youth 
trained  in  respect  to  his  betters  and  elders,  and  silent  in 
their  presence,  will  give  his  opinion  frankly  when  asked, 
with  a  want  of  diffidence  quite  unexpected.  The  coming 
years  are  certain  to  bring  changes  that  cannot  be  arrested. 

While  I  was  being  baked  to-day,  at  my  work  that  I 
could  not  leave,  my  companions  have  been  away  on  a 
visit  higher  up  the  mountains,  to  the  hot  baths  on  the 
lake,  and,  at  least  for  part  of  the  time,  have  had  the  weather 
almost  cold.  They  have  much  to  say  about  the  baths, 
and  the  fullness  of  visitors,  and  the  difficulty  of  getting 
place,  and  one  of  them  has  gone  to  her  bath  in  the  native 
dress,  and  another  cannot  yet  quite  get  over  the  impres¬ 
sion  made  upon  him  by  the  pretty  young  lady  near  whom 
he  stood  under  the  eaves  of  the  bath-house,  where  he 
had  taken  refuge  from  the  rain,  and  whose  modest  man¬ 
ners  were  as  charming  as  her  youthfulness,  and  had  no 
more  covering. 

Here  everything  is  still  hot  and  damp,  though  our 
nights  are  cooler  and  I  am  able  to  make  out  more  con¬ 
veniently  my  notes  and  my  sketches  and  my  memoranda 
of  purchased  acquisitions.  On  the  lower  floor  boxes  are 
being  filled,  and  to-morrow  evening  horses  and  men  will 
stand  in  our  garden  to  be  laden  ;  we  shall  follow  the  light 
of  their  lanterns  down  the  road,  and  they  will  seem  to  be 
carrying  parts  of  us  away  from  Nikko. 


201 


NIKKO  TO  YOKOHAMA 


Near  Utsunomiya,  August  30. 

WE  left  Nikko  this  morning;  a  hot,  moist,  quiet, 
lovely  morning.  We  dawdled  at  our  friends’ 
house  and  breakfasted,  and  said  good-by  to  our  worthy 
landlord.  Yesterday  he  had  found  fault  with  my  sketch¬ 
ing  him  in  his  ordinary  yellow  priest’s  dress,  while  he 
had  vestments  as  beautiful  as  any  painter  or  clergyman 
could  desire;  in  proof  of  which  he  had  rushed  into  his 
house  and  reappeared  in  those  lovely  things  and  moved 
about  the  green  of  the  garden  looking  as  radiant  as  any 
flamingo.  But  I  knew  not  of  these  possessions  of  his,  and 
regretted  quite  as  deeply  as  he  could  himself  not  having 
painted  him  in  them. 

It  was  a  sad  moment — that  of  leaving  his  little  gar¬ 
den  for  good,  and  walking  down  the  road  to  the  enor¬ 
mous  steps  under  the  trees  by  the  river,  where  we  re¬ 
versed  the  picture  of  our  arrival  six  weeks  ago.  There 
stood  the  naked  runners,  and  our  hostess  above  us,  as 
we  sat  in  the  kurumas,  but  this  time  the  doctor  was 
not  with  us,  except  to  bid  us  good-by.  His  place  was 
filled  by  the  professional  guide  and  factotum,  who  sat 
anxious  for  departure  in  his  own  kurmna,  and  who  for 
days  had  been  packing  and  labeling  and  helping  to 
make  lists,  and  receiving  instructions,  and  bustling 
about  at  times  when  he  was  not  sleeping  —  and  gener¬ 
ally  making  life  a  misery.  We  rattled  over  the  bridge, 
passed  the  children  going  to  school,  and  the  polite 
policeman  with  spectacles  and  sword,  who  looks  like  a 


202 


German  Rath  of  some  kind  or  other,  and  the  woman  of 
the  Eta  class  1  who  has  sold  us  skins  of  monkeys  and  of 
badgers,  as  well  as  two  baby  monkeys,  whom  we  have 
disrespectfully  named  Sesson  and  Sosen,  after  the  painters 
who  so  beautifully  portrayed  their  ancestors. 

Soon  we  had  entered  the  long  avenue  of  cryptomeria 
and  kept  on  through  shadow  and  sunlight,  with  our 
runners  at  their  fullest  gait,  for  we  had  to  be  in  time 
for  the  afternoon  train  at  Utsunomiya,  and  it  is  twenty- 
two  miles  from  Nikko.  But  we  were  more  than  in  time, 
and  had  to  wait  at  an  inn  near  the  station.  I  am  ab¬ 
surdly  stupid  and  fatigued,  so  that  I  have  given  up 
watching  the  landscape  and  merely  make  these  notes. 
Besides,  there  is  a  missionary  near  us  so  self-contented 
that  I  feel  like  withdrawing  into  my  own  self  and  dream¬ 
ing  of  the  times  he  was  not  here.  I  recall  a  little  story 
of  Utsunomiya,  connected  with  my  associations  of 
Nikko,  which  I  shall  try  to  tell  you;  though,  at  the 
very  start,  I  find  a  difficulty  in  my  having  heard  it  told 
in  several  different  and  contradictory  ways  —  and  I  can 
only  travel  one  at  a  time.  As  I  shall  tell  it,  it  repre¬ 
sents  a  legend  believed  at  least  in  the  theater,  which,  as 
we  know,  everywhere  makes  a  kind  of  history. 

The  story  is  about  the  shogun  Iyemitsu,  whose 
temple,  you  know,  is  at  Nikko,  and  who  was  near  miss¬ 
ing  the  honor  of  being  divinized  there  later,  owing  to 
a  plot  arranged  by  his  enemies,  the  scene  of  which  was 
this  little  town  of  Utsunomiya.  At  that  time  he  was 
but  a  boy,  the  heir-apparent,  and  was  on  his  way  to 
Nikko,  as  was  his  official  duty,  to  worship  at  the  tomb 

1  “  Pariahs.  Their  occupations  were  to  slaughter  animals,  tan  leather, 
attend  at  executions,  etc.  The  class,  as  such,  is  now  abolished,  but  rem¬ 
nants  of  its  peculiar  dress  may  still  occasionally  be  seen  in  the  persons  of 
young  girls  with  broad  hats  who  go  about  the  streets  playing  and  singing.” 
(Satow). 


203 


of  his  grandfather  Iyeyasu,  lately  deceased.  In  this 
story  Iyemitsu  is  not  in  the  legitimate  line  of  descent, 
but  is  made  the  heir  by  the  decision  of  the  great  Iyeyasu. 

His  father,  Hidetada,  was  shogun,  as  you  know,  hav¬ 
ing  succeeded  Iyeyasu,  during  the  latter’s  lifetime, — 
the  old  man  remaining  in  reality  the  master,  though 
absolved  from  external  responsibilities.  Now,  Hide- 
tada’s  wife  was  of  the  family  of  Nobunaga,  on  her 
mother’s  side  — and  bore  him  a  son,  who  was  named 
during  his  childhood  Kuni  Matsu.  Another  son,  whose 
boy  name  was  Take  Chiyo,  was  the  son  of  Kasuga  No 
Tsubone,  a  remarkable  woman.  Each  son  had  tutors, 
people  of  importance,  and  around  each  boy  gathered  a 
number  of  ambitious  interests,  all  the  fiercer  that  they 
were  dissembled  and  depended  for  success  upon  the 
choice  of  either  heir  as  shogun,  to  succeed  father  and 
grandfather.  The  claim  of  the  other  son  was  favored  by 
the  father  and  more  generally  accepted;  but  the  son  of 
Kasuga  was  superior  in  looks,  manners,  and  intelligence, 
and  his  mother  hoped  to  influence  in  his  favor  old  Iye¬ 
yasu,  the  grandfather. 

Iyeyasu  was  then  living  in  retirement  at  Sunpu,  that 
is  now  called  Shidzuoka,  which  is  on  the  road  called  the 
Tokaido. 

Kasuga  took  advantage  of  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrines 
of  Ise  to  stop  on  her  road,  and  naturally  offer  homage 
to  the  head  of  the  family,  the  grandfather  of  her  son. 
Besides  the  power  of  her  own  personality,  she  was  able 
to  place  before  Iyeyasu  very  strong  arguments  for  choos¬ 
ing  as  the  heir  of  the  line  a  youth  as  promising  as  her 
Take  Chiyo. 

Iyeyasu  advised  her  to  continue  her  pilgrimage,  and 
not  to  go  out  of  her  woman’s  business,  which  could  not 
be  that  of  interfering  with  questions  of  state ;  and  she 
obeyed.  But  Iyeyasu  revolved  the  entire  question  in  his 


204 


mind,  and  decided  that  there  was  danger  in  a  delay  that 
allowed  both  parties  to  grow  stronger  in  antagonism. 
So  that  he  came  at  once  to  Yedo,  which  is  now  Tokio, 
and  visited  Hidetada,  asking  to  see  both  the  boys  to¬ 
gether.  They  came  in  along  with  their  father  and  his 
wife,  and  took  their  accustomed  places.  Now  these 
were  on  the  higher  floor,  raised  by  a  few  inches  from  the 
floor  on  which  kneels  the  visitor  of  lower  degree,  in  the 
presence  of  his  superior :  a  line  of  black  lacquer  edges 
the  division.  Thereupon  Iyeyasu  taking  the  boy  Take 
Chiyo  by  the  hand,  made  him  sit  by  him,  and  alongside 
of  his  father,  and  ordered  the  other  son,  Kuni  Matsu,  to 
sit  below  the  line,  and  said:  “The  State  will  come  to 
harm  if  the  boys  are  allowed  to  grow  up  in  the  idea  of 
equal  rank.  Therefore,  Take  Chiyo  shall  be  shogun, 
and  Kuni  Matsu  a  daimio.”  This  decision  gave  to  the 
line  of  the  Tokugawa  a  brilliant  and  powerful  continu¬ 
ity,  for  Take  Chiyo,  under  his  manhood  name  of  Iye- 
mitsu,  was  as  an  Augustus  to  the  Caesar  Iyeyasu.  And, 
indeed,  Iyeyasu  had  certainly  made  sufficient  inquiries 
to  warrant  his  decision.  If  he  consulted  the  abbot  Ten- 
kai,  of  Nikko,  who  was  a  preceptor  of  the  boy,  he  must 
have  heard  favorably  of  him.  For,  according  to  the 
judgment  of  Tenkai,  as  I  find  it  quoted  elsewhere,  “  Iye- 
mitsu  was  very  shrewd  and  of  great  foresight,”  and  in 
his  presence  the  great  abbot  felt,  he  said,  “  as  if  thorns 
were  pricking  his  back.” 

Not  but  that  he  was  also  fond  of  luxury  and  splendor; 
and  one  glimpse  of  him  as  a  youth  shows  a  quarrel 
with  a  tutor  who  found  him  dressing  himself,  or  being 
dressed,  for  “No”  performances,  or  “private  theatricals,” 
and  who  proceeded  thereupon  to  throw  away  the  double 
mirrors, — in  which  the  youth  followed  his  hair-dresser’s 
arrangements, — -with  the  usual,  classical  rebuke,  condemn¬ 
ing  such  arrangements  as  unworthy  of  a  ruler  of  Japan. 

205 


There  are  many  stories  of  Iyemitsu  more  or  less  to 
his  advantage  —  and  a  little  anecdote  shows  a  young 
man  of  quick  temper,  as  well  as  one  who  insisted  upon 
proper  attendance. 

Iyemitsu  had  been  hawking  in  a  strong  wind,  and 
with  no  success.  Tired  and  hungry,  he  went  with  some 
lord-in-waiting  to  a  neighboring  temple,  where  lunch 
was  prepared  for  them  by  his  cook, —  a  man  of  rank. 
Iyemitsu,  while  taking  his  soup  in  a  hurry,  crushed  a 
little  stone  between  his  teeth ;  whereupon  he  immedi¬ 
ately  insisted  upon  the  cook’s  committing  suicide.  The 
cook  being  a  gentleman,  a  man  of  affairs,  not  a  mere 
artist  like  poor  Vatel,  hesitated,  and  then  said:  “No 
soup  made  by  me  ever  had  stones  or  pebbles  in  it;  other¬ 
wise  I  should  gladly  kill  myself :  you  gentlemen  have  be¬ 
gun  dinner  at  once  without  washing  hands  or  changing 
dress,  and  some  pebble  has  dropped  into  the  soup  from 
your  hair  or  clothes.  If,  after  having  washed  your  hands 
and  changed  your  dress,  you  find  any  stones  in  the 
soup,  I  shall  kill  myself.”  Whereupon  Iyemitsu  did  as 
was  suggested  by  the  cook,  repented  of  his  own  severity, 
and  increased  the  cook’s  pay.  But  the  tutor  and  guard¬ 
ians  of  Iyemitsu  watched  over  him  carefully,  and  the 
story  I  had  begun  to  tell  shows  that  they  had  no 
sinecure. 

The  tutors  and  guardians  of  the  brother,  whom  Iyeyasu 
had  decided  to  put  aside  in  favor  of  Iyemitsu,  were  nat¬ 
urally  deeply  aggrieved  and  sought  for  chances  to  regain 
their  ward’s  future  power  and  their  own. 

As  my  story  began,  Iyemitsu,  representing  the  hered¬ 
itary  shogunate,  was  called  upon  to  travel  to  Nikko  and 
worship  officially  at  his  grandfather’s  tomb.  On  his  way 
it  was  natural  that  he  should  rest  as  we  did,  at  Utsu- 
nomiya,  and  in  the  castle  of  his  vassal,  Honda,  who 
was  one  of  the  tutors  of  his  brother.  This  was  the  son 


206 


of  the  great  Honda  Masanobu,  of  whom  I  spoke  above 
as  a  champion  of  Iyeyasu. 

Here  was  an  opportunity;  and  a  scheme  of  getting  rid 
of  the  young  shogun  was  devised  by  his  enemies  that 
seemed  to  them  sufficiently  obscure  to  shield  them  in 
case  of  success  or  failure,  at  least  for  a  time.  This  was, 
to  have  a  movable  ceiling  made  to  the  bath-room 
weighted  in  such  a  way  as  to  fall  upon  any  one  in  the 
bath  and  crush  him.  Whether  it  was  to  be  lifted  again, 
and  leave  him  drowned  in  his  bath,  or  to  remain  as  an 
accident  from  faulty  construction,  I  do  not  know. 

To  build  this  machine,  ten  carpenters  were  set  to 
work  within  the  castle  and  kept  jealously  secluded, — 
even  when  the  work  was  done,  for  the  young  shogun 
delayed  his  coming.  The  confinement  fretted  the  men, 
among  whom  was  a  young  lover,  anxious  to  get  back  to 
his  sweetheart,  and  not  to  be  satisfied  with  the  good 
food  and  drink  provided  to  appease  him.  He  told  of  his 
longings  to  the  gatekeeper,  whose  duty  it  was  to  keep 
him  imprisoned,  bribed  him  with  his  own  handsome  pay 
and  promise  of  a  punctual  return,  and  at  last  managed 
to  get  out  and  be  happy  for  a  few  moments.  The  girl 
of  his  love  was  inquisitive,  but  reassured  by  explanation 
that  the  work  was  done,  and  that  he  should  soon  be  out 
again  ;  yet  not  before  the  shogun  should  have  come  and 
gone  on  his  way  to  Nikko.  And  so  he  returned  to  the 
gatekeeper  at  the  time  appointed.  Meanwhile,  during 
that  very  night,  the  officers  of  the  castle  had  gone  their 
rounds  and  found  one  man  absent.  In  the  morning  the 
roll-call  was  full.  This  was  reported  to  the  lord  of  the 
castle,  who  decided  that  if  he  could  not  know  who  it 
was  that  had  been  absent  it  was  wise  to  silence  them 
all.  Therefore,  each  was  called  to  be  paid  and  dis¬ 
missed,  and,  as  he  stepped  out,  was  beheaded.  The 
gatekeeper,  getting  wind  of  what  was  happening  and 


207 


fearing  punishment,  ran  away,  and  being  asked  by  the 
girl  about  her  lover,  told  her  what  he  knew  and  that  he 
believed  all  the  carpenters  to  have  been  killed. 

Since  her  lover  was  dead,  she  determined  to  die  also, 
having  been  the  cause  of  his  death  and  of  the  death  of 
his  companions.  She  wrote  out  all  this,  together  with 
what  her  lover  had  told  her  of  his  belief  and  suspicions, 
and  left  the  letter  for  her  father  and  mother,  who  re¬ 
ceived  it  along  with  the  tidings  of  her  suicide.  The 
father,  in  an  agony  of  distress  and  fear,  for  there  was 
danger  to  the  whole  family  from  every  side,  made  up 
his  mind  to  stop  the  shogun  at  all  hazards,  and  in  the 
depth  of  the  night  made  his  way  to  Ishibashi,  where  one 
of  the  princes  had  preceded  Iyemitsu,  who  was  to  pass 
the  night  still  further  back  on  the  road. 

Here  there  was  difficulty  about  getting  a  private  in¬ 
terview  with  so  great  a  man  as  this  prince,  whose  name 
you  will  remember  as  being  the  title  of  the  former  owner 
of  our  friend’s  house  in  Nikko:  Ii,  Kammon  no  Kami. 

The  letter  was  shown  to  Ii,  who  despatched  two  messen¬ 
gers,  gentlemen  of  his  own,  one  back  to  Yedo,  to  see  to 
the  safety  of  the  castle  there;  the  other  one  to  Iyemitsu, 
but  by  a  circuitous  route,  so  that  he  might  appear  to 
have  come  the  other  way.  The  letter  was  to  the  effect 
that  the  young  shogun’s  father  was  very  ill  and  desired 
his  son’s  immediate  return.  By  the  time  that  Iyemitsu 
could  get  into  his  litter,  Ii  had  arrived  and  shown  him 
the  girl’s  letter.  Then  the  occupants  of  the  litters  were 
changed,  Matsudaira  taking  Iyemitsu’s  norimono  and 
Iyemitsu  Matsudaira’s.  This,  of  course,  was  to  give 
another  chance  of  escape  in  case  of  sudden  attack  by  a 
larger  force,  for  they  were  now  in  enemy’s  country  and 
did  not  know  what  traps  might  be  laid  for  them.  The 
bearers  of  the  palanquin  pressed  through  the  night,  so 
that,  leaving  at  midnight,  they  arrived  at  Yedo  the  fol- 

208 


lowing  evening;  but  the  strain  had  been  so  great  that 
they  could  go  no  further.  There  was  still  the  fear  of 
attack,  and  among  the  retinue  one  very  strong  man, 
Matsudaira  Ishikawa,  carried  the  litter  of  the  prince 
himself.  But  the  gates  were  closed,  and  the  guards  re¬ 
fused  to  recognize  the  unknown  litter  as  that  of  the 
shogun;  nor  would  they,  fearing  treachery,  open  when 
told  that  Iyemitsu  had  returned.  Delays  ensued,  but 
at  last  admission  was  obtained  for  Iyemitsu  through  a 
wicket  gate —and  he  was  safe.  Later,  after  cautious 
delays,  the  guilty  were  punished,  and  I  hope  the  family 
of  the  carpenter’s  love  escaped.  When  I  first  read  the 
story,  years  ago,  the  version  was  different,  and  there 
was  some  arrangement  of  it,  more  romantic  —  with  some 
circumstances  through  which  the  young  carpenter  and 
his  sweetheart  escaped,  and  alone  the  father,  innocent 
of  harm,  committed  suicide.  The  story  sounded  suffi¬ 
ciently  Japanese  and  upside  down  and  was  pretty,  but 
I  have  forgotten  its  convolutions,  so  that  I  give  you  this 
one,  which  I  think  has  a  pleasant  local  color.  It  has 
local  color,  and  that  charm  of  action  which  belongs  to 
such  histories  as  those  of  the  great  Dumas  —  not  to 
mention  Mr.  Froude. 

Do  not  forget  that  these  details  are  given  for  your 
amusement,  and  not  for  your  instruction.  I  am  quite 
uncertain  as  to  the  historical  value  of  my  information  as 
soon  as  I  come  down  to  close  particulars.  What  little 
I  really  know  comes  down  from  early  reading  of  the 
missionaries  and  of  the  Dutch,  and  that  is  mostly  out¬ 
side  impression,  though  thereby  valuable,  because  not 
based  on  theory  or  principle. 

I  do  not  know  that  critical  history  has  yet  begun 
here.  But  in  the  historical  place  where  we  have  spent 
our  summer,  talk  about  the  past  was  but  natural  and  all 
to  be  listened  to  without  much  chance  for  us  to  distin- 
14  209 


guish  what  was  of  record  and  what  was  of  legend. 
What  I  have  been  writing  about  is  legend,  and  I  am 
warned  of  its  complicated  incorrectness.  That  has  not 
prevented  my  setting  it  down.  You  would  like  the 
pretty  murderous  story  whose  details  reflect  a  peculiar 
past.  It  would  be  nothing  to  you  if  it  were  not  at  all 
Iyemitsu,  but  his  father  Hidetada,  for  whose  destruction 
the  famous  plot  of  the  Hanging  Ceiling  was  hatched. 
Nor  would  you  care  if  the  ceiling  and  bath-room  had 
never  existed.  What  is  worth  having  is  that  many 
people  thought  that  they  saw  themselves  in  the  mirror 
of  a  period. 

Now  see  how  re-arranging  the  atoms  of  which  the 
previous  story  is  constituted  will  give  you  quite  another 
picture  that  I  would  spare  you,  though  it  is  a  correct 
historical  one,  but  it  has  the  advantage  of  being  quite 
as  strange  in  certain  ways,  though  not  so  fitted  for  the 
theater,  and  of  giving  you  again  a  picture  of  feudal  Japan. 

As  I  said  before,  the  story  as  I  have  just  told  it 
has  been  kept  in  memory,  if  not  invented  on  purpose, 
through  a  book  written  in  honor  of  a  Japanese  opposed 
to  Honda,  the  master  of  the  castle,  the  author  of  the 
plot  of  the  Hanging  Ceiling.  There  may  have  been 
such  a  story  afloat  at  that  time  among  people  of  low 
degree  kept  out  from  the  many  secrets  of  the  court,  but 
knowing  that  things  were  being  done ;  at  the  same  time, 
there  is  nothing  that  would  account  for  a  sufficient  rea¬ 
son  ;  and,  worse  than  all,  the  date  is  impossible.  Young 
Iyemitsu  was  not  in  any  position  at  that  possible  date 
(eighth  year  of  the  Genwa)  to  represent  the  shogunate. 
H  is  father  Hidetada  would  have  been  the  proposed 
victim,  which  is  again  impossible  because  of  the  devo¬ 
tion  of  Honda,  the  lord  of  the  castle,  to  Hidetada.  That 
there  was  such  an  accusation  I  believe  is  understood. 
It  was  met  at  the  time  and  at  once  disproved  to  the 


210 


satisfaction  of  the  shogun.  It  was  the  Lady  Kano  who 
had  denounced  Honda,  and  apparently  invented  the 
plot.  She  was  a  daughter  of  Iyeyasu,  and  had,  perhaps, 
some  of  the  fierce  strain  said  to  have  shown  in  her 
mother  and  sister.  Her  baby  grandson  had  only  just 
been  deprived  of  this  very  fief  for  the  advantage  of 
Honda,  so  that  she  had  at  least  this  grievance.  And 
she  was  united  in  intention  with  the  wife  of  the  shogun 
Hidetada.  This  was  a  beautiful  and  wilful  woman,- — 
known  to  us  by  her  after-death  name  of  Sogenin,  whose 
preference  for  Iyemitsu’s  brother,  her  son  also,  had  met 
Honda’s  resistance.  You  can  realize  that  I  am  not  capa¬ 
ble  of  even  discussing  the  question,  and  that  I  am  only 
doing  it  to  amuse  you  and  to  bring  in  more  pictures. 

As  the  shogun  was  to  be  received  by  the  lord  of 
Utsunomiya,  new  additions  were  ordered  for  his  castle, 
the  bridges  and  roads  were  repaired,  which  works  re¬ 
quired  all  the  laborers,  skilled  or  otherwise,  of  his  do¬ 
mains,  and  even  obliged  him  to  draw  upon  his  retain¬ 
ers  and  soldiers.  Such  enormous  preparations  were, 
of  course,  noised  abroad.  Now,  it  so  happened  that  at 
one  time  Honda’s  father  had  been  concerned  in  an  in¬ 
surrection,  or  levy  of  arms,  of  certain  members  of  the 
Buddhist  sect  to  which  he  belonged,  and  had  fought  the 
great  Iyeyasu,  whom  afterwards  he  served  so  faithfully. 
Among  the  upholders  of  the  faith  were  fighting  monks, 
a  variety  of  the  militant  church  well  known  in  the  an¬ 
nals  of  Japan.  At  the  close  of  this  rebellion  a  band  of 
these  monks  —  something  like  a  hundred  —  and  a  hun¬ 
dred  other  warriors  were  intrusted — Japanese-way  — 
to  the  wardship  of  their  former  fellow  partisan,  and 
there  they  were  handy  for  use.  But  they  had  retained 
something  of  both  the  clergyman  and  the  warrior,  keep¬ 
ing  their  priestly  names  and  wearing  their  hair  unshorn, 
and  they  refused  to  work,  which  in  their  eyes  would 


21 1 


have  assimilated  them  to  common  soldiers  and  laborers. 
Thereupon, — and  this  was  thought  to  be  queer  even  in 
those  days, —  the  lord  of  the  castle  invited  them  to  go 
about  the  country  and  report  upon  certain  matters  in 
various  places,  at  which  places  they  were  met  by  bodies 
of  armed  men,  who  put  an  end  to  them.  I  suppose  that, 
according  to  strict  views  of  the  country  and  time,  this 
was  justifiable,  though  excessive,  and  this  is  one  of  the 
little  pictures  that  I  wish  to  frame.  You  see  how  the 
unpleasantness  of  the  occasion  might  help  the  later  stories 
of  assassination. 

And  now,  in  correcting  another  error,  I  can  give  you 
another  picture  of  feudal  Japan,  a  Japan  now  broken  up, 
against  whose  last  rulers,  the  Tokugawa,  I  hear  daily  so 
much.  That  lady  in  the  story  just  given  you,  where 
she  is  the  mother  of  Iyemitsu  and  the  concubine  of  his 
father,  the  shogun,  was  a  very  different  person. 

Little  Iyemitsu  was  the  legitimate  son;  moreover,  the 
one  who  by  date  of  birth  was  the  probable  heir,  notwith¬ 
standing  the  preference  shown  by  his  father  and  his 
mother,  Sogenin,  for  his  younger  brother.  So  that  the 
succession  was  decided  abruptly  by  the  stern  head  of 
the  family,  Iyeyasu. 

Great  attention  was  paid  by  the  grandfather,  the  great 
Iyeyasu,  to  the  education  of  this  grandson.  As  a  Jap¬ 
anese  friend  remarked,  he  believed  that  the  important 
place  in  the  generation  was  that  of  the  third  man.  So 
that  three  distinguished  noblemen  were  appointed  his 
governors:  Sakai,  to  teach  benevolence;  Doi,  to  teach 
wisdom  ;  Awoyama,  to  teach  valor.  Besides  these  great 
professors  for  the  future,  the  little  boy  needed  an  im¬ 
mediate  training  by  a  governess  good  in  every  way. 
Kasuga,  a  married  woman,  the  daughter  of  a  well-known 
warrior  of  imperial  descent  who  had  lost  his  life  in  some 
conspiracy  of  the  previous  generation,  was  chosen  by 


212 


the  government  for  the  position.  This  was,  perhaps,  as 
great  an  honor  as  could  be  offered  to  any  lady.  Be¬ 
sides,  there  was  an  opportunity  to  clear  the  memory  of 
her  father.  And  she  begged  her  husband  to  divorce 
her  that  she  might  be  free  to  give  all  her  life  to  this 
task.  So  devoted  was  she  that  the  boy  being  at  one 
time  at  the  point  of  death,  she  offered  herself  to  the 
gods  for  his  recovery,  vowing  never  to  take  any  remedy. 
In  her  last  illness  she  refused  all  medicine,  and  even 
when  Iyemitsu —  now  ruler — begged  her  to  take  a  com¬ 
mended  draught  from  his  hand,  she  merely,  out  of  polite¬ 
ness,  allowed  it  to  moisten  her  lips,  saying  that  her  work 
was  done,  that  she  was  ready  to  die,  and  that  her  life 
had  long  ago  been  offered  for  the  master.  Nor  would 
she  allow  the  master  to  indulge  her  with  regard  to  her 
own  son.  He  was  in  exile,  deservedly,  and  the  shogun 
asked  her  permission  to  pardon  him,  in  the  belief  of 
possible  amendment.  She  refused,  bidding  Iyemitsu 
to  remember  his  lesson:  that  the  law  of  the  country  was 
above  all  things,  and  that  she  had  never  expected  such 
words  from  him.  Moreover,  that  had  he  revoked  the 
law  for  her,  she  could  not  die  in  peace.  There  is  a  Spar¬ 
tan  politeness  in  all  this,  for  which  I  think  the  stories 
worth  saving  to  you. 

And  they  will  help  to  give  Iyemitsu  existence  for 
you.  He  seems  too  vague  in  the  temple  dedicated  to 
him  at  Nikko,  even  when  we  look  at  his  bronze  tomb 
and  are  told  that  he  lies  there  packed  in  vermilion:  our 
minds  have  become  so  far  removed  from  the  ways  of 
thinking  of  Japan  that  a  divinized  mortal  is  an  empty 
phrase  for  us. 

The  details  of  such  stories  as  I  have  told  would  not 
have  seemed  very  antiquated  across  the  seas,  at  their 
date,  to  those  who  remembered  the  days  of  Queen  Eliz¬ 
abeth.  The  change  has  been  as  great  in  Europe  as  in 
14* 


213 


Japan,  but  here  it  has  been  sudden,  like  the  shifting  of 
the  scene  of  the  theater;  so  that  I  can  realize  that  when 
I  was  a  boy  such  things  as  I  am  telling  you  would  not 
have  seemed  very  old-fashioned  hereabouts. 

And  now  I  make  my  notes  in  this  little  railroad  coach, 
with  the  telegraph  wires  running  in  and  out  of  the  picture 
that  I  see  through  my  window  ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  this  im¬ 
plied  contrast  which  I  think  has  urged  me  most  to  tell 
you  these  more  or  less  accurate  anecdotes. 

If  you  wished  to  learn  more  about  Iyemitsu  from  the 
Japanese  biography  that  I  have  with  me,  you  might  be 
puzzled.  One  has  felt  so  distinctly  the  all-powerfulness 
of  the  men  whose  names  and  stories  are  the  outer  his¬ 
tory  of  Japan.  So  full  is  the  impression  forced  upon 
one  by  the  outside  of  the  life  of  such  a  ruler  as  Iyemitsu, 
bounded  between  the  worship  of  his  grandfather  in 
golden  temples  and  his  own  worship  in  almost  equal 
splendors,  and  filled  in  by  despotic  use  of  power,  that  it 
leaves  little  place  for  the  theory  of  all  this  power  com¬ 
ing  from  the  Mikado,  who  practically  lived  upon  a 
narrow  income  apportioned  to  him  by  his  lieutenant, 
the  shogun.  But  in  my  little  biography,  written  evi¬ 
dently  to  keep  to  present  views  and  theories,  I  learn 
that  toward  the  emperor  our  impatient  hero  was  “faith¬ 
ful  and  humble”  —  and  part  of  his  story  consists  of  visits 
to  the  emperor  and  of  his  receiving  honors  from  this 
source  of  all  honor.  Thus,  upon  his  coming  of  age,  and 
having  his  hair  trimmed,  cut,  and  shaved  in  a  manner 
to  indicate  this  important  event,  the  emperor  sends  a 
great  court  officer  to  compliment  him,  gives  him  the 
name  of  Iyemitsu,  honors  him  with  the  rank  of  Junii, 
and  appoints  him  a  Go  Dainagon.  Also,  later  he  ap¬ 
points  him  to  be  the  commander  of  the  right  wing  of 
the  imperial  guard,  and  also  superintendent  of  the  Right 
Imperial  Stable.  Thereupon  Iyemitsu  calls  upon  his 


214 


majesty  at  Kioto  to  pay  his  homage,  and  is  made  com¬ 
mander-in-chief  of  the  army  and  navy,  and  moreover 
Naidaizin,  with  the  rank  of  Shonii ;  and  he  is  also  per¬ 
mitted  to  ride  in  an  ox-carriage  and  to  have  armed 
body-guards;  the  latter  privilege  one  that  he  had  been 
obliged  to  enjoy  perforce  from  early  days,  as  we  have 
seen.  Whereupon,  says  my  chronicler,  Iyemitsu  had 
the  honor  of  presenting  to  his  majesty  a  yearly  income 
of  twenty  thousand  bags  of  rice;  and  this  goes  on  until 
after  his  death,  when  the  emperor  gives  him  these  titles 
for  the  future,  the  name  of  Daiken-In,  the  rank  of  Sho- 
ichi,  and  the  premier  office  of  Daijo-Daizin.  “The  favor 
of  Five  Imperial  poems  was  also  extended  to  the  de¬ 
ceased.” 

Iyemitsu  was  fond  of  painting,  and  studied  under 
the  instruction  of  Kano  Tanyu.  He  liked  to  paint  the 
sacred  mountain  Fuji,  and  the  same  courteous  chronic¬ 
ler  tells  me  that  some  of  his  work  was  better  than 
Tanyu’s.  But  I  should  prefer  seeing,  before  deciding; 
though  Tanyu’s  imperturbable  security  makes  one  not 
a  little  bored. 

It  is  dark;  we  are  approaching  lyemitsu’s  city,  Tokio, 
formerly  Yedo,  the  city  of  the  Tokugawa,  now  finally 
returned  to  the  emperor,  to  whom  they  gave  the  thou¬ 
sands  of  bags  of  rice  for  income.  We  shall  sleep  at 
No.  22  Yokohama,1  and  look  out  on  the  water  again. 

1A11  of  Yokohama  given  to  foreign  settlement  was  laid  out  by  number¬ 
ing,  and  retains  it,  apart  from  any  other  designation. 


215 


YOKOHAMA  —  KAMAKURA 


Yokohama,  September  i,  1886. 

NATURALLY  we  have  again  been  wandering  in 
Tokio ;  I  don’t  know  that  we  have  seen  anything 
more,  as  we  should  certainly  do  if  we  had  any  energy  in 
the  heat.  It  is  more  natural  to  fritter  away  time  in  little 
things.  Besides,  there  is  a  general  feeling  of  discourage¬ 
ment  accompanying  the  continuance  of  cholera  ;  and  this 
is  an  unseasonable  moment.  Theaters  are  closed  ;  people 
are  away.  If  I  had  to  give  an  account  of  my  time,  I  could 
not  make  it  up.  I  know  that  I  went  to  see  an  engraver 
on  wood  ;  that  he  showed  me  his  work,  or  his  way  of 
working,  of  which  I  knew  a  little;  that  he  made  me  drink 
some  cherry-blossom  tea,  pretty  to  look  at  and  of  unseiz- 
able  flavor;  that  he  took  me  to  see  some  of  his  work 
printed  ;  that  I  climbed  up  a  ladder,  somewhere  into  a 
hot  room,  where  a  man,  naked  but  for  his  loin-cloth,  sat 
slapping  pieces  of  paper  with  a  big  brush  upon  the  block 
previously  touched  with  color ;  and  that  the  dexterity 
with  which  he  fitted  the  paper  in  proper  place,  so  that  the 
colors  should  not  overlap,  was  as  simple  and  primitive  as 
his  dress. 

Then  I  went  to  see  the  painter  whose  drawings  had 
been  engraved.  I  can’t  explain  just  why  the  arrangement 
of  his  courtyard  seemed  what  I  might  have  expected,  and 
yet  I  still  keep  that  impression  without  having  noticed 
anything  but  the  heat  —  the  heat  and  the  sun  —  the  heat 
accumulated  in  this  big  dreary  city  of  innumerable  little 
houses. 


216 


We  explained  at  the  door  our  request,  and  after  a  few 
moments  we  were  told  that  the  painter,  though  he  was  ill, 
would  see  us.  We  entered,  and  sat  awhile,  during  which 
interval  a  boy  pupil,  occupied  in  copying  sketches  of  the 
master,  looked  at  us  surreptitiously  through  a  circular 
opening  in  the  partition  that  made  him  a  room. 

Our  artist  came  in  and  sat  down,  evidently  an  ill  man, 
and  offered  us  the  inevitable  tea,  and  showed  us  his 
methods  of  preparation  for  the  colored  wood-blocks,  and 
got  down  examples  from  the  great  pile  of  rolls  and  bun¬ 
dles  of  papers  and  drawings  that  filled  one  side  of  the 
room,  among  which  I  noticed  many  fragments  of  illus¬ 
trated  English  or  American  newspapers.  And  we  dared 
not  intrude  any  further,  and  departed — just  as  the  con¬ 
versation  had  turned  toward  European  art  —  with  gifts 
of  drawings  from  him  and  promise  of  exchange. 

No ;  what  we  have  really  done  is  again  to  call  at  shops 
and  begin  over  again  the  pursuit  of  bric-a-brac.  It  is  so 
impossible  to  believe  that  we  can  find  nothing  in  all  the 
accumulation  of  all  these  shops.  But  even  if  it  be  so,  the 
manner  of  hunting  is  an  amusement,  as  is  the  mere  seeing 
of  all  this  stuff  in  its  own  home ;  and  the  little  attentions 
of  the  dealer,  the  being  in  a  house  with  the  privileges  of 
tea  and  smoking,  and  a  lazy  war  of  attack  and  defense ; 
and  the  slow  drawing  out  of  pieces  from  bags  and  boxes, 
so  that  time,  the  great  enemy,  is  put  in  the  wrong.  And 
then,  what  one  is  not  expected  to  buy  or  look  at  is  quite 
as  good.  I  know  of  one  place  to  which  I  have  returned 
to  look  out  of  the  shoji  screens  into  the  garden,  where 
there  is  a  big  pottery  statue  of  Kwannon.  I  don’t  intend 
to  get  it  or  to  bargain  about  it,  but  I  intend  to  buy  other 
things  under  its  influence  ;  perhaps  the  daimio  seats  that 
we  use  in  our  visit,  or  the  lanterns  that  light  us  when  we 
stay  late,  whose  oil  will  have  to  be  emptied  if  they  are 
sold.  And  there  are  places  where  things  are  for  sale  to 


217 


people  versed  in  Chinese  ways  of  thinking,  but  where 
amateurs  on  the  wing  like  ourselves  are  not  encouraged, 
and  that  is  certainly  seductive.  Still,  I  am  afraid  that  we 
shall  miss  a  great  deal  that  we  wish  to  see,  because  of 
this  dawdling  in  shops. 

And  yet  there  is  no  sadness  following  these  visits,  such 
as  has  come  upon  us  when  we  have  gone  to  see  some  of 
the  modern  workers.  From  them  we  depart  with  no  more 
hope.  It  is  like  some  puzzles,  like  the  having  listened  to 
an  argument  which  you  know  is  based  on  some  inaccuracy 
that  you  cannot  at  the  moment  detect.  This  about  the 
better,  the  new  perfect  work,  if  I  can  call  it  perfect,  means 
only  high  finish  and  equal  care.  But  the  individual  pieces 
are  less  and  less  individual ;  there  is  no  more  sicrprise. 
The  means  or  methods  are  being  carried  further  and  be¬ 
yond,  so  that  one  asks  one’s  self,  “Then  why  these  methods 
at  all  ?  ”  The  style  of  this  finer  modern  work  is  poorer, 
no  longer  connected  with  the  greater  design,  as  if  ambi¬ 
tion  was  going  into  method  and  value  of  material.  Just 
how  far  this  is  owing  to  us  I  cannot  tell,  but  the  market 
is  largely  European,  and  what  is  done  has  a  vague  ap¬ 
pearance  of  looking  less  and  less  out  of  place  among  our 
works,  and  has,  as  I  said  before,  less  and  less  suggestion 
of  individuality.  None  of  it  would  ever  give  one  the  slight 
shock  of  an  exception,  none  of  it  would  have  the  appear¬ 
ance  which  we  know  of  our  own  best  work,  the  feeling 
that  we  are  not  going  to  see  more  of  it.  This  statement 
applies  to  the  best  work ;  the  more  common  work  is 
merely  a  degradation,  the  using  of  some  part  of  the 
methods;  just  enough  to  sell  it,  and  to  meet  some  easily 
defined  immediate  commercial  needs.  I  saw  the  begin¬ 
nings  years  ago,  and  I  can  remember  one  of  our  great 
New  York  dealers  marking  on  his  samples  the  colors  that 
pleased  most  of  his  buyers,  who  themselves  again  were  to 
place  the  goods  in  Oshkosh  or  Third  Avenue.  All  other 

218 


colors  or  patterns  were  tabooed  in  his  instructions  to  the 
makers  in  Japan.  This  was  the  rude  mechanism  of  the 
change,  the  coming  down  to  the  worst  public  taste,  which 
must  be  that  of  the  greatest  number  at  any  given  time  ; 
for  commerce  in  such  matters  is  of  the  moment :  the  sale 
of  the  wooden  nutmeg,  good  enough  until  used.  Have  I 
not  seen  through  the  enormous  West  any  amount  of  the 
worst  stained  glass,  all  derived  from  what  I  made  myself, 
some  years  ago,  as  a  step  toward  a  development  of  greater 
richness  and  delicacy  in  the  “art  of  glass”?  And  my 
rivalry  of  precious  stones  had  come  to  this  ignoble  end  and 
caricature.  The  commercial  man,  or  the  semi-professional 
man  whom  we  call  the  architect,  must  continually  ask  for 
something  poorer,  something  to  meet  the  advancing  flood 
of  clients  and  purchasers,  something  more  easily  placed 
anywhere,  at  random,  without  trouble  or  responsibility, 
and  reflecting  the  public  —  as  it  is  more  easy  to  fit  in  a 
common  tile  than  the  most  beautiful  Persian  one  —  in  the 
average  of  buildings  made  themselves  to  meet  the  same 
common  demand.  And  so  with  all  applied  beauty  ;  the 
degradation  is  always  liable  to  occur. 

Japan  is  an  exceptional  place  for  studying  these 
changes ;  we  can  see  them  gradually  evolved  —  all  as  if 
by  vivisection  of  some  morbid  anatomy.  The  study  of 
these  diseases  and  infections  of  art  at  home  is  attended 
with  moral  distress  and  intellectual  disgust,  because  we 
are  all  in  part  responsible  ;  but  here  we  can  see  it  disin¬ 
terestedly,  and  speculate  dispassionately  upon  the  degra¬ 
dation  of  good  things  resulting  from  the  demands  of 
business. 

Were  it  quite  in  the  line  of  what  you  expect  to-day 
from  me,  I  might  make  out  for  you  the  lines  of  the  old 
scheme  of  civilization  under  which  former  work  was  done. 
The  feudal  organization  of  Japan  divided  the  country  into 
provinces  of  distinct  habits  and  modes  of  work  —  more  or 


219 


less  isolated,  partly  by  want  of  easy  or  general  communi¬ 
cation,  partly  by  the  political  interests  of  their  rulers  and 
of  the  main  government,  partly  by  the  permanence  of  the 
provincial  feeling  which  prevented  the  inhabitant  of  one 
place  moving  to  another  to  find  occupation  and  employ¬ 
ment.  The  rule  of  the  idea  of  the  family,  which  is  still 
great  in  Japan,  kept  things  in  the  same  order,  preserved 
all  traditions,  and  at  the  same  time  offered  opportunities, 
by  adoption,  to  individuals  who  might  increase  or  keep 
up  the  family  reputation  or  influence.  Here,  too,  I  sup¬ 
pose,  is  the  basis  of  a  certain  dignity  and  personal  inde¬ 
pendence  in  the  manners  of  the  people  which  runs  in  with 
their  courtesy.  Every  one  must  have  known  what  was 
expected  of  him,  and  have  felt  quite  free  after  that  duty 
paid.  Within  this  courtesy  that  I  see  all  about  me,  I  feel 
something  of  what  we  might  call  democratic,  for  want  of 
a  better  name.  I  recognize  it  in  the  manner  of  the  subor¬ 
dinate,  who  takes  an  apparently  personal  interest  in 
things,  after  his  duty  of  politeness  and  obedience  is  paid. 
And  though  there  was  no  absolute  caste,  as  we  under¬ 
stand  it,  except  in  such  a  case  as  that  of  the  Eta,  the  lines 
of  life  were  strictly  laid  out,  until  the  new  laws,  which  have 
made  things  open  more  or  less  to  all.1  With  these  changes, 
with  disturbances  of  fortune,  with  the  loss  of  power  and 
of  income  on  the  part  of  the  small  rulers,  with  a  country 
all  laid  out  now  in  “  prefectures,”  with  the  necessarily  in¬ 
creasing  power  of  “  bureaucracy,”  the  whole  tone  of  indi¬ 
vidual  life  must  change,  must  become  less  independent  in 
any  one  thing,  more  independent  apparently  in  general 
—  must  flatten  out,  if  I  may  so  express  it.  And  the  arti¬ 
san  will  have  to  follow  the  course  of  trade  and  its  fluctua¬ 
tions  until  some  general  level  has  been  established  —  some 

IThe  gentry,  the  old  Samurai,  however,  still  constitute  the  governing  class 
to-day  apparently,  and  the  aristocratic  spirit  stands  in  the  way  of  indiscrimi¬ 
nate  rise  of  the  plebeians. 


220 


general  level  of  manufactures,  I  mean,  for  there  is  no 
general  level  possible  in  art.  Something  will  happen 
which  will  resemble  the  ways  of  France,  where  art  still 
exists,  but  where  things  have  been  so  managed  that  any 
artist  out  of  the  general  level  has  had  a  very  bad  time  of 
it— the  whole  live  forces  of  the  nation,  in  trade  and  “  bu¬ 
reaucracy,”  being  against  his  living  easily  any  life  of  his 
own.  When  the  forces  of  traditional  taste  and  skill  and 
habits  of  industry  now  existing  in  Japan  shall  have  been 
organized  anew,  Japan,  like  France,  will  have  undoubt¬ 
edly  a  great  part  to  play  in  industrial  trade. 

Art  may  live  or  may  not  in  the  future  here  ;  nothing 
of  what  has  been  done  elsewhere  to  grow  it  or  foster  it 
has  made  it  stronger.  It  has  always  come  by  the  grace 
of  God,  to  be  helped  when  it  is  here,  or  choked  out ;  but 
no  gardener  has  ever  seen  its  seed.  Some  of  my  friends 
in  Japan  are  plunged  in  a  movement  to  save  what  there 
is  of  the  past  in  art,  to  keep  its  traditions,  to  keep  teach¬ 
ing  in  the  old  ways,  without  direct  opposition  to  what 
may  be  good  in  the  new.  They  see  around  them  the 
breaking  up  of  what  has  been  fine,  and  the  new  influences 
producing  nothing,  not  even  bad  imitations  of  Europe.  I 
know  too  little  upon  what  their  hopes  are  based,  but 
O — — ,  who  is  in  the  “  tendency,”  sails  with  us  for  Amer¬ 
ica  and  Europe,  and  I  may  find  out  more  through  him. 

Meanwhile  he  is  to  inquire  with  Professor  F - into  the 

education  of  the  artist  and  artisan  with  us,  and  to  see 
“how  we  do  it.”  I  am  deeply  interested  in  their  under¬ 
taking,  perhaps  the  most  remarkable  of  all  similar  inqui¬ 
ries —  if  honestly  conducted.  But  I  see  vague  visions  of 
distorted  values,  of  commercial  authorities  looked  upon 
as  artistic,  of  the  same  difficulties,  for  instance,  that  I  might 
meet  if  I  wished  now  to  make  an  official  report,  not  to  the 
public  or  to  government, —  that  is  always  easy, —  but  to 
myself,  who  have  no  special  interest  in  being  misled,  of 


221 


the  methods  of  art  and  industry  that  have  been  and  exist 
in  the  East. 

Three  days  are  wasted.  I  do  scarcely  any 
work,  and  there  comes  to  me,  as  a  punishment,  a  feeling 
of  the  littleness  of  a  great  deal  here,  coming,  I  think,  from 
the  actual  smallness  of  many  details  —  of  the  sizes  of  the 
little  houses,  of  the  little  gardens,  of  the  frail  materials,  of 
the  set  manners. 

To-morrow  we  shall  go  to  something  great,  to 
the  great  statue,  the  “  Daibutsu,”  at  Kamakura,  and  per¬ 
haps  we  may  even  push  as  far  as  Enoshima,  but  I  doubt 
it.  It  will  be  our  last  day,  as  we  shall  sail  the  following 
morning  for  Kobe.  As  I  run  along  the  streets  of  Tokio 
in  the  afternoon,  with  the  feeling  that  I  have  tried  to  set 
down,  of  things  having  narrowed  as  they  become  familiar, 
comes  the  excited  melancholy  of  departure,  and  this  same 
ugliness  and  prettiness  have  a  new  value  as  I  look  upon 
them  for  the  last  time.  I  sit  in  the  little  tea-house  near  the 

station,  waiting  for  A - ,  and  drink  the  “  powdered 

tea,”  which  tastes  better  than  ever,  as  a  stirrup-cup.  And 
I  do  not  resent  the  familiarity  of  a  big  Chinaman,  proud 
of  his  English,  and  of  national  superiority  here  in  size  and 
commercial  value,  who  addresses  me  and  seeks  to  find  out 
whether  I,  too,  have  a  commercial  value.  My  answers 
puzzle  him,  and  he  leaves  me  uncertain  as  to  quantities, 
and  walks  off  with  the  impudent  majesty  of  his  fellows 
among  this  smaller  and  less  commercial  race. 

At  dinner  I  see  at  the  table  near  me  a  Japan¬ 
ese  gentleman,  not  very  young,  dining  with  his  wife  and 
another  lady,  who,  I  am  told,  is  a  well-known  gei-sha. 
This  information  I  receive  from  my  more  or  less  trusty 
courier,  who  also  gives  me  some  confused  intimation  that 
this  gentleman  had  participated  in  the  murder  of  Richard¬ 
son,  the  Englishman,  many  years  ago,  under  the  old 
regime,  for  which  murder  somebody  else  was  decapitated. 


222 


The  wife  is  correct  and  immovable,  the  gei-sha  animated, 
with  a  great  deal  of  color  and  charm.  A  German  or  Rus¬ 
sian  sits  at  another  table, heavy,  diplomatic,  thick-bearded; 
the  gei-sha  recognizes  him,  rises,  goes  over  to  his  table, 
and  bends  very  low  before  him,  almost  kneeling;  then 
speaks  courteously  and  animatedly,  as  if  in  compliment, 
to  which  the  diplomat,  without  turning  his  head,  says  a 
word  or  two  distantly.  Then  the  gei-sha  bends  again  down 
to  the  table,  and  walks  respectfully  backward,  and  then 
swings  back  into  her  seat.  I  am  amused  by  this  complete 
inversion  of  our  own  habits,  and  am  reminded  of  the  man¬ 
ners  and  assiduous  attentions  of  our  men  at  the  theaters 
when  they  call  on  the  indifferent  fair.  I  see,  too,  that  the 
points  of  attack  and  defense  must  be  different. 

The  heat  was  still  intense  even  in  the  night,  within  fifty 
yards  of  the  sea ;  we  went  down  to  the  quay  and  hired  a 
boat  with  man  and  boy,  to  drift  out  into  the  hazy  moon¬ 
light.  The  boy  did  the  main  part  of  the  work  :  we  lay  in 
the  boat,  seeing  nothing  but  this  little  body,  and  the  flap¬ 
ping  of  its  garments,  and  everything  else  a  vague  space 
of  lightened  shadow.  We  rowed  or  sculled  far  away, 
came  near  to  a  shore  where  there  was  a  tea-house,  for 
women  opened  its  closed  sides  and,  revealed  by  their  lan¬ 
terns,  came  down  and  called  to  us.  But  we  pulled  off, 
and  later,  in  a  far-off  ocean  with  no  shore  nor  sky,  came 
across  a  little  summer-house  built  on  piles,  through  which 
the  volume  of  the  sea  pressed  and  recoiled.  Nothing 
could  be  more  abandoned,  more  improbable.  There  was 
nothing  in  sight.  Had  we  entered  the  little  pavilion,  and 
moored  our  boat  or  let  it  float  away,  we  might  have  felt 
as  if  out  in  the  distant  sea.  We  were  the  center  of  a  globe 
of  pearl ;  no  edges  nor  outlines  of  anything  visible,  except 
a  faint  circular  light  above,  from  which  the  pearly  color 
flowed  tremulously,  and  a  few  wrinkles  of  silver  and  dark 
below;  no  sound  but  a  gentle  sway  of  water.  And  we 


223 


came  home,  having  had  the  sense  of  the  possibility  of  in¬ 
tense  isolation  in  a  fairyland  of  twilight. 

At  Sea,  off  Izu,  September  3. 

We  sailed  this  morning  on  the  French  steamer.  It  is 
now  quite  late  in  the  afternoon.  The  Pacific  keeps  its 
blue  under  us,  and  a  blue  sea  haze  separates  us  from 
the  violets  and  greens  of  the  mountains  of  the  shore,  be¬ 
hind  which  the  light  is  slowly  sinking.  All  is  gentle  and 
soothing;  but  our  captain  says  that  he  is  not  sure,  and 
that  “  hors  d’ Izu  nous  aurons  la  houle  du  Pacifique .” 
While  waiting  for  this  long,  angry  roll,  I  shall  tell  you 
about  yesterday,  of  which  there  was  little  —  for  we  had 
undertaken  too  much. 

We  left  rather  too  late,  and  drove  a  good  way  in  the 
foggy  morning,  passing  much  culture,  and  under  many 
trees,  of  all  of  which  I  remember  little.  It  was  late  when 
we  stopped  to  breakfast  at  the  little  inn  from  which  we  were 
to  be  taken  by  kurmna ,  first  to  the  big  statue  of  Buddha, 
then  wherever  we  might  have  time  to  go.  We  left  the 
place,  and  reached  the  hollow  between  hills  where  the 
statue  dwells,  after  passing  through  a  curious  deep  cut¬ 
ting  right  through  the  rocks,  which  marks  some  old  ap¬ 
proach  to  the  former  city ;  for  these  hollows  and  fields 
were  once  covered  by  a  great  city,  the  city  of  Kamakura, 
the  city  of  Yoritomo,  and  the  great  statue  now  out  of 
doors  was  once  in  a  temple  of  that  city.  Places  are  shown 
you  in  the  dells :  this  was  where  was  once  the  mansion 
of  such  a  hero,  here  was  that  of  the  administrators  of  the 
military  rule  in  the  fifteenth  century ;  here  stood  the  pal¬ 
ace  where,  with  his  two  hundred  and  eighty  last  follow¬ 
ers,  such  a  one  retired  to  perform  harakiri,  and  perish  in 
the  flames,  when  overwhelming  forces  had  captured  the 
great  city  which  was  once  the  other  capital  of  Japan. 
Trees  and  ordinary  culture  cover  these  spaces  now. 


224 


And  here  was  the  temple.  Sixty-three  pillars  sup¬ 
ported  its  roof,  and  many  of  their  bases  are  still  there. 
But  a  great  inundation  from  the  sea,  now  some  miles  dis¬ 
tant,  destroyed  the  temple  and  its  adjacent  buildings. 
This  happened  as  far  back  as  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  cen¬ 
tury,  and  the  temple  has  not  been  rebuilt.  The  desire  of 
Yoritomo  to  see  the  great  statue  made  during  his  lifetime 
was  not  granted  ;  but  one  of  his  waiting-ladies,  after  his 
death,  collected  the  necessary  funds,  and  it  appears  to 
have  been  cast  in  1252  by  Ono  Go-ro-ye-mon.  I  know 
nothing  about  him,  but  if  he  be  the  artist,  it  is  pleasant  to 
record  his  name.  The  image  is  made  of  bronze  cast  in 
pieces  brazed  together  and  finished  with  the  chisel.  It  is 
nearly  fifty  feet  high  as  it  sits  ;  and  if  these  points  help 
you  to  its  size,  learn  that  its  eyes,  for  instance,  are  four 
feet  long,  the  length  across  its  lap  from  knee  to  knee  is 
thirty-five  feet,  and  the  circumference  of  the  thumb  is 
fully  three  feet.  But  these  measures,  though  they  show  a 
large  scale  and  great  size,  do  not  indicate  a  proportion,  as 
we  should  understand  it.  The  whole  modeling  is  for 
effect,  and  the  means  and  methods  of  the  modeling  are 
simple  and  elementary.  Like  all  work  done  on  archaic 
principles,  the  main  accentuations  are  overstated,  and 
saved  in  their  relations  by  great  subtleties  in  the  large 
surfaces.  It  is  emphatically  modeled  for  a  colossus  ;  it  is 
not  a  little  thing  made  big,  like  our  modern  colossal  stat¬ 
ues  ;  it  has  always  been  big,  and  would  be  so  if  reduced 
to  life-size. 

We  saw  it  first  from  the  side  through  trees,  as  we  ran 
rapidly  to  the  front,  where  are  a  temple  gate,  and  a  long 
courtyard  still  in  order,  that  leads  up  to  the  statue.  From 
the  side  one  can  see  how  it  bends  over,  and  rough  as  it  is 
from  behind,  the  impression  of  something  real  was  strong 
as  its  gray  form  moved  through  the  openings  of  the  trees. 
The  photographs  must  long  have  made  you  know  it,  and 
15  225 


they  also  show  the  great  base  and  the  immense  temple 
ornaments  that  stand  upon  it  at  the  feet  of  the  statue. 
They  show  also  the  little  lodge  at  the  side,  where  the 
priest  in  attendance  lives,  and  gives  information,  and  sells 
photographs  and  takes  them,  and  generally  acts  as  show¬ 
man.  We  took  many  photographs  from  new  points  of 
view,  and  we  even  removed  the  thatch  of  a  penthouse  so 
as  to  get  nearer  and  under  the  statue  to  the  side  ;  and  I 
painted  also,  more  to  get  the  curious  gray  and  violet  tone 
of  the  bronze  than  to  make  a  faithful  drawing,  for  that 
seemed  impossible  in  the  approaching  afternoon.  We  did 
not  know  how  long  a  time  we  had  spent  lingering  about 
it.  The  clouds  had  begun  to  open,  and  a  faint  autumnal 
light  filled  the  little  hollow,  which  has  only  small  trees, 
and  no  imposing  monuments  like  the  great  cryptomeria, 
which  alone  might  seem  fit  to  grow  about  here.  All,  on 
the  contrary,  was  gentle  and  small  —  the  lines  of  the  hills, 
the  trees,  the  garden  plants  about  us :  we  might  have 
been  anywhere.  Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well;  the  whole 
impression  comes  from  the  statue,  with  the  only  objection 
or  detraction  that  we  can  get  near  enough  to  it  to  see  the 
mechanism,  the  means,  and  details  of  its  expression.  An 
accident,  the  breaking  of  its  prison  temple  by  a  great  cat¬ 
aclysm  of  nature,  a  great  wave  of  the  sea  coming  far 
inland  and  destroying  the  great  building,  has  given  to  the 
statue  something  that  it  could  never  have  had  to  the 
physical  eye  —  in  the  degree  it  has  now.  Now,  freed 
from  its  shrine,  the  figure  sits  in  contemplation  of  entire 
nature,  the  whole  open  world  that  we  feel  about  us,  or  its 
symbols  —  the  landscape,  the  hills,  the  trees  and  fields, 
the  sky  and  its  depths,  the  sunshine  playing  before  the 
eyes  of  the  seated  figure,  the  air  in  which  dance  all  the 
things  that  live  in  air,  from  the  birds  that  fly  to  the  atoms 
of  dust,  and  the  drifting  leaves  and  blossoms,  the  confu¬ 
sion  or  the  peace  of  the  elements,  the  snow  in  crystals. 


and  the  rain  in  drops.  All  this  world  of  ours,  which  to  the 
contemplative  mind  is  but  a  figurative  fragment  of  the 
universe,  lies  before  the  mental  gaze  of  the  Buddha.  Un¬ 
winking,  without  change  of  direction,  he  looks  forever  ; 
his  will  is  forever  subdued  and  held  beneath  him,  as  his 
fingers  pressed  together  indicate  his  freedom  from  all  the 
disturbances  of  that  past  of  being  which  is  subject  to  time 
and  change,  and  his  cognition,  undisturbed,  envelops  and 
images  the  universe  in  final  contemplation. 

Astounding  success  of  the  artist  in  what  he  has  really 
done,  for  there  is  no  trace  of  means ;  the  sum  of  realism 
is  so  slight,  the  conventional  has  so  great  a  part ;  each 
detail  is  almost  more  of  an  ornament  than  of  a  represen¬ 
tation.  One  almost  believes  that  the  result  may  be  partly 
accidental  :  that,  as  one  cannot  fathom  the  reason  of  the 
expressiveness  of  a  countenance,  or  of  the  influence  of  a 
few  musical  notes,  even  though  one  knows  the  mechan¬ 
ism,  so  it  seems  difficult  to  grant  that  there  was  once  a 
choice  in  the  other  mind  that  caused  it,  that  there  were 
once  many  paths  opened  before  it. 

And  still  more  do  I  believe  that  the  accident  of  the 
great  tempest  has  given  a  yet  more  patent  and  subtle 
meaning  to  the  entire  figure.  Once  upon  a  time  its  de¬ 
tails,  indeed,  if  not  its  entirety,  must  have  looked  more 
delicate  in  the  reflected  light  of  the  temple  building,  when 
the  upper  part  of  the  figure  was  bathed  in  mysterious 
gloomy  light,  while  the  lower  glittered  in  answer  to  the 
openings  of  the  doors.  But  could  anything  ever  have 
rivaled  the  undecidedness  of  this  background  of  veiled 
sky  and  shifting  blue,  which  makes  one  believe  at  times 
that  the  figure  soon  must  move  ?  As  one  looks  longer 
and  longer  at  it,  with  everything  around  it  gently  chang¬ 
ing,  and  the  shadows  shifting  upon  its  surface,  the  tension 
of  expectation  rises  to  anxiety.  The  trees  rustle  and  wave 
behind  it,  and  the  light  dances  up  and  down  the  green 


227 


boughs  with  the  wind;  it  must  move  —  but  there  is  no 
change,  and  it  shall  sit  forever. 

As  we  left,  and  I  walked  down  the  long  pavement  in 
front  of  the  statue,  in  the  early  autumn  sunshine  and  the 
rising  freshness  of  the  wind,  I  turned  again  and  again, 
each  time  with  the  realization  that  the  statue  was  still  sit¬ 
ting,  until  we  turned  out  of  sight,  a  vague,  unreasonable 
sense  of  having  left  it  alone  accompanying  me,  until  other, 
different,  light,  and  gay  impressions  broke  the  influence 
and  allowed  me  to  think  of  what  I  had  seen  as  a  work  of 
art,  such  as  I  could  understand  and  decompose  —  and,  if 
I  wished,  make  also. 

And  we  lunched  at  Hase,  near  by,  and  from  the  com¬ 
fortable  inn  could  see  on  the  gray  hill  above  the  temple 
of  Kuwannon,  and  its  red  buildings  and  balustrades. 
After  a  very  long  lunch,  we  walked  up  to  the  temple,  and 
from  the  platform  in  front  looked  toward  the  afternoon 
sea  right  before  us,  and  the  plain  of  Kamakura.  Then  we 
entered,  and  were  taken  in  behind  the  great  screen  doors 
to  a  narrow  but  high  place  — -  lighted  only  from  the  little 
entrance  —  wherein  stood  right  by  us  and  over  us  a 
standing  figure  of  the  divinity,  all  golden  in  the  dark.  It 
is  over  thirty  feet  high,  and  whether  it  be  great  art  or 
not, —  for  the  darkness  was  too  great  to  judge  of  form, — 
the  glitter  of  a  smile  of  gold  far  up  above  our  heads,  in 
the  obscurity  of  the  roof,  was  an  impression  that,  even 
so  near  to  the  great  statue  out  of  doors,  remains  distinct. 
It  was  late  afternoon  ;  we  dared  look  at  no  more  statues, 
nor  at  relics  of  warriors  of  Kamakura,  and  started  for  the 
beach,  partly  with  the  hope  of  seeing  Fuji  behind  us.  But 
all  was  veiled  in  the  sky  ;  we  walked  along  the  beach,  our 
kurumas  dragging  behind  us,  and  crossed  a  little  stream, 

and  while  A - bathed  in,  and  thereby  took  possession 

of,  the  Pacific,  I  walked  up  the  sand-hills  toward  the  little 
village  at  the  end  of  the  strand.  As  I  came  near  it,  an 

228 


unfortunate  distorted  being,  scarred  with  some  leprous 
disease,  plunged  toward  me  in  the  twilight  from  some 
vague  opening  in  the  hills,  and  begged  piteously,  follow¬ 
ing  me  afterward  with  a  thankful  wail  of  “  O  Danna  San  ! 
Danna  San  !  Danna  San  !  ”  that  I  hear  yet.  We  reentered 
our  kurumas  and  drove  in  triumph  to  the  inn  of  the  little- 
village.  I  say  in  triumph :  /  drove  in  triumph,  observed 
of  all  observers  —  I  had  my  usual  costume  and  was 

clothed.  A - ,  rather  than  wait  to  get  dry,  rode  along 

with  only  a  partial  covering  of  yukatta,  and  attracted  no 
attention.  Had  he  had  nothing  on  at  all,  he  would  have 
been  still  more  in  keeping  with  many  of  our  neighbors. 
Night  was  falling,  nothing  more  could  be  done;  we  got 
back  to  our  carriage  and  horses,  and  drove  back  in  the 
warm  darkness  to  Yokohama.  And  I  close  as  we  begin 
to  feel  the  roll,  “  la  houle  du  Pacifique 


i5* 


229 


KIOTO 


September  16. 


E  came  into  Kioto  from  Osaka,  by  rail,  one  fine 


V  V  afternoon.  I  had  a  half-childish  hope  of  being  sur¬ 
prised,  a  memory  of  days  when,  a  boy,  I  read  of  the  great 
forbidden  city.  Only  a  few  years  ago  it  was  still  forbid¬ 
den,  and  now  the  little  respectable  car  was  hurrying  us 
there  as  prosily  as  older  life  translates  the  verse  of  our 
early  dreams.  We  were  in  September  heat  and  glare. 
We  passed  over  wide  spaces  of  plain,  edged  by  sharp 
mountains,  looking  hot  and  barren  ;  through  great  plan¬ 
tations  and  stretches  of  green,  with  here  and  there  a  temple 
half  hidden,— -and  over  dried  river-beds. 

The  station  closed  all  views  on  our  arrival,  and  the  sud¬ 
den  transfer  to  streets  showing  no  European  influences 
was  as  if  we  had  passed  through  a  city’s  walls. 

The  first  sensation  was  merely  the  usual  one  of  a  whirl 
through  innumerable  buildings,  low,  of  wood,  and  more 
or  less  the  same  ;  extremely  wide  streets,  all  very  clean  ; 
many  people ;  a  great  bridge  across  the  stony  bed  of  a 
river  almost  dry  ;  then  some  trees  and  little  gardens  and 
corners  of  temples  with  heavy  roofs,  as  we  turned  through 
little  roads  and  drove  up  to  the  gate  of  the  hotel  inclosure, 
which  is  placed  on  the  edge  of  the  outside  hills  and  looks 
down  upon  Kioto.  We  were  high  up,  in  rooms  looking 
over  trees  just  below;  next  to  us  the  corner  of  temple 
grounds  that  rounded  away  out  of  sight. 

Early  on  most  mornings  I  have  sat  out  on  our  wide 
veranda  and  drawn  or  painted  from  the  great  panorama 


230 


before  me  —  the  distant  mountains  making  a  great  wall 
lighted  up  clearly,  with  patches  of  burning  yellow  and 
white  and  green,  against  the  western  sky.  The  city  lies 


KIOTO  IN  FOG — MORNING. 


in  fog,  sometimes  cool  and  gray ;  sometimes  golden  and 
smoky.  The  tops  of  pagodas  and  heavy  roofs  of  temples 
lift  out  of  this  sea,  and  through  it  shine  innumerable  little 
white  spots  of  the  plastered  sides  of  houses.  Great  ave¬ 
nues,  which  divide  the  city  in  parallel  lines,  run  off  into 
haze  ;  far  away  always  shines  the  white  wall  of  the  city 
castle ;  near  us,  trees  and  houses  and  temples  drop  out 
occasionally  from  the  great  violet  shadows  cast  by  the 
mountain  behind  us.  Before  the  city  wakes  and  the  air 
clears,  the  crows  fly  from  near  the  temples  toward  us,  as 
the  great  bell  of  the  temple  sounds,  and  we  hear  the  call 
of  the  gongs  and  indefinite  waves  of  prayer.  Occasion¬ 
ally  a  hawk  rests  uneasily  on  the  thin  branches  below. 
Then  the  sun  eats  up  the  shadows,  and  the  vast  view 
unites  in  a  great  space  of  plain  behind  the  monotony  of 


231 


the  repeated  forms  of  the  small  houses,  broken  by  the 
shoulders  of  the  roofs  and  pagodas  of  many  temples.  But 
near  us  are  many  trees  and  tea-houses  and  gardens,  and 
we  are  as  if  in  the  country. 

We  have  worked  conscientiously  as  mere  sightseers 
until  all  is  confused  as  with  an  indigestion  of  information. 
I  could  hardly  tell  you  anything  in  a  reasonable  sequence, 
for  in  and  out  of  what  I  go  to  see  runs  a  perpetual  warp 
of  looking  at  curios,  of  which  occupation  I  feel  every  day 
disgusted  and  ashamed,  and  to  which  I  return  again  as  a 
gambler  might,  with  the  hope  of  making  it  all  right  with 
my  conscience  by  some  run  of  luck.  This  began  on  our 
very  first  day,  when  at  our  first  visit  to  an  excellent  merch¬ 
ant,  for  whom  we  had  letters,  we  spent  the  hours  after  din¬ 
ner  looking  at  the  bric-a-brac  brought  together  for  our 
purchase  or  amusement.  We  had  had  the  presentation 
and  disappearance  of  the  ladies  of  the  house  after  their 
customary  genuflections  ;  and  a  European  dinner,  waited 
upon,  in  part,  by  lesser  clients  of  our  entertainer.  Mean¬ 
while  his  one  little  girl  sat  beside  him,  half  behind  him, 
and  occasionally  betrayed  her  secret  love  for  him  by 
gently  pressing  his  leg  with  the  sole  of  her  little  stock¬ 
inged  foot.  Japanese  children  are  one  of  the  charms  of 
Japan,  and  this  one  is  a  type  of  their  stillness;  her  sweet, 
patient  face  watching  the  talk  of  the  elders,  no  change  in 
her  eyes  revealing  anything,  but  the  whole  person  taking 
everything  in  — the  little  delicate  person,  which  disap¬ 
peared  in  a  dress  and  sash  not  unlike  her  elders’,  except 
for  color.  Then  there  was  a  visit  to  another  merchant,  in 
the  oldest  house  of  the  city,  built  low,  so  that  none  might 
perchance  look  down  upon  the  sovereign  lord’s  procession. 
Display  of  family  relics  —  marriage  gifts  and  complete 
trousseaux  of  the  past ;  marriage  dresses  of  the  same 
time,  symbolical  in  color, —  white,  red,  and  finally  black. 
We  are  told  to  notice  that  the  gold  and  silver  fittings  of 


232 


precious  lacquers  are  wanting,  because  many  years  ago 
some  sumptuary  edict  of  the  Tokugawa  government  sud¬ 
denly  forbade  the  display  or  use  of  the  precious  metals  in 
excess  — a  gradation  to  be  determined  by  inspecting  offi¬ 
cials —  for  persons  who,  like  merchants,  should  not  pre¬ 
tend  to  pass  a  certain  line. 

Then,  owing  to  other  letters,  we  have  paid  our  devoirs 
to  the  governor,  and  called,  and  subsequently  received 
the  polite  attentions  of  his  intelligent  secretary.  Under 
his  guidance  we  visit  the  School  of  Art  and  see  boys 
sketching,  and  enter  rooms  of  drawing  devoted  respect¬ 
ively  to  the  schools  of  the  North  and  the  South. 

And  we  visit  the  school  for  girls,  where  the  cooking- 
class  is  one  bloom  of  peach-like  complexions,  like  a  great 
fruit-basket;  where  the  ladylike  teacher  of  gymnastics 
and  child  etiquette  wears  divided  skirts;  where  the  rooms 
for  the  study  of  Chinese  classics  and  history  contain  a 
smaller  number  of  fair  students,  looking  more  reason¬ 
able  and  much  paler ;  and  where,  on  admiring  in  the 
empty  painting-class  a  charming  sketch  of  Kioto  wharves, 
like  the  work  of  some  lesser  Rico,  I  am  told  that  the  fair 
artist  has  disappeared  —  married,  just  as  if  it  had  hap¬ 
pened  with  us  at  home.  But  with  a  difference  worth 
weighing  gravely,  for  our  guide  and  teacher  informs  me 
that  the  aim  of  this  education  is  not  to  make  girls  inde¬ 
pendent,  but  rather  to  make  more  intelligent  and  useful 
daughters,  sisters,  or  wives.  And  in  this  old-fashioned 
view  I  come  to  recognize  the  edges  of  a  great  truth. 

Then  temples,  for  Kioto  is  a  city  of  temples  ;  and  every 
day  some  hours  of  hot  morning  have  been  given  to  visits, 
all  of  which  make  a  great  blur  in  my  mind.  The  general 
memory  is  impressive  and  grand  ;  the  details  run  one  into 
the  other. 

Thus  we  are  paying  dear  for  sightseeing,  but  it  is  im¬ 
possible  to  set  aside  the  vague  curiosity  which  hates  to 


233 


leave  another  chance  unturned.  And  when  again  shall  I 
return,  and  see  all  these  again  ?  Now,  however,  all  is  as¬ 
sociated  with  heat  and  glare,  and  with  the  monotony  of 
innumerable  repeated  impressions,  differing  only  in  scale. 
Still,  probably,  when  I  shall  have  left  I  shall  recall  more 
clearly  and  separately  the  great  solemn  masses  of  un¬ 
painted  wood,  for  which  early  forests  have  been  spoiled  ; 
the  great  size  of  their  timbers,  the  continuous  felicity  of 
their  many  roofings,  the  dreary  or  delicate  solemnity  of 
their  dark  interiors,  the  interminable  recurrence  of  paint¬ 
ings  by  artists  of  the  same  schools  ;  the  dry  and  arid 
court-yards,  looked  at,  in  this  heat  of  weather,  from  the 
golden  shadows,  where  are  hidden  sometimes  lovely  old 
statues,  sometimes  stupid  repetitions  ;  images  of  the  whole 
race  of  earlier  shoguns ;  the  harsh  features  of  the  great 
Taiko  Sama,  the  sleek  and  subtle  face  of  the  great  Iye- 
yasu,  or  the  form  of  K’wan-on,  carved  by  early  art, 
leaning  her  cheek  on  long  fingers;  or  noble,  tapestried 
figures,  rich  in  color  and  intensity  of  spotting,  painted  by 
the  Buddhist  Cho-Den-Su.  .  .  . 

I  should  like  to  describe  the  temple  ceilings,  in  which 
are  set  the  lacquered  coffers  of  the  war  junk  of  Taiko,  or 
of  the  state  carriage  of  his  wife.  .  .  . 

I  have  sketched  in  his  reception  hall,  peopled  to-day 
only  by  specters  of  the  past — with  gilt  and  painted  panels 
on  which  may  have  looked  the  great  Iyeyasu,  who  was  to 
succeed  him,  and  the  blessed  Xavier,  and  the  early  Jesuits, 
and  the  chivalric  Christian  lords  who  were  to  die  on  great 
battlefields.  And  close  to  a  great  room,  where  many 
monks  bent  over  peaceful  books,  the  little  closet,  with 
dainty  shelves,  in  which  Taiko  looked  at  the  heads  of  his 
dead  enemies,  brought  there  for  inspection. 

And  we  have  gone  up  into  the  plain  little  pavilion, 
sacred  to  the  ceremonies  of  tea-drinking,  where  the  rough 
and  shrewd  adventurer  offered  to  grim,  ambitious  warriors, 


234 


as  honorific  guerdon  for  hard  service,  the  simple  little 
cups  of  glazed  clay  that  collectors  prize  to-day. 

I  run  over  these  associated  details,  because  certainly 
the  question  of  the  great  buildings  is  too  weighty  for  my 
present  mood.  But  the  greater  part  of  the  romance  of 
Japan  is  called  up  at  every  moment  by  what  we  see  just 
now. 

At  Uji,  among  the  tea  gardens,  we  stopped  on  our  way 
to  Nara,  the  older  capital,  to  see  the  temple  of  Bio-do-in 
and  its  “  Phoenix  hall,”  built  in  wood,  that  is  now  over 
eight  hundred  years  old  ;  its  statues  ;  its  half-defaced 
paintings  of  the  “  Paradise  in  the  West  ”  ;  its  high,  dusty 
ceiling,  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl ;  and  its  sweet-toned 
bell. 

And  we  saw  the  legendary  bow  of  Yorimasa,  which 
you  will  recall  with  me  whenever  you  see  a  picture  of 
the  bow  of  the  moon,  across  which  flies  the  Japanese 
cuckoo.  It  was  here  that  he  defended  Uji  bridge,  with  a 
forlorn  hope,  against  the  army  of  the  Taira,  that  his  prince 
might  have  time  to  escape ;  and  here,  at  Bio-do-in,  while 
his  last  followers  kept  off"  the  rush  of  the  enemy,  Yorimasa 
ran  himself  through  with  his  sword,  as  a  final  duty  paid  to 
the  honor  of  Japan. 

On  this  side  of  the  bridge,  as  I  walked  up  other  temple 
steps,  hedged  in  by  trees,  with  our  friend  Oye-San,  the 
violet  butterflies  and  blue  dragon-flies  crossed  our  path  in 
every  bar  of  sunshine. 

At  the  monastery  of  Kurodani,  on  the  edge  of  the 
mountain  near  us,  are  shown  the  graves  of  Nawozane  and 
of  the  young  Atsumori,  whom  he  killed  in  battle.  We 
are  shown  the  portrait  of  the  victim,  painted  in  sorrow  by 
the  victor,  and  the  pine-tree  still  stands  upon  which  the 
warrior  hung  his  armor  when,  tormented  by  remorse,  he 
carried  out  his  vow  of  never  more  bearing  arms,  and 
sought  this  place  to  enter  religion  and  pray  for  the  soul 


23s 


of  the  youth  he  had  unwillingly  slain.  Strange  flower  of 
human  pity,  blooming  out  of  the  blood  of  civil  wars  like 
some  story  of  Italy  in  the  coeval  day  of  St.  Francis. 

At  that  time  the  great  war  of  the  Genji  and  the  Heike 
was  devastating  japan,  and  in  1184,  in  a  great  battle  by 
the  sea,  Yoshitsune,  the  hero  of  romance  of  Japan,  serving 
his  brother  Yoritomo,  whose  story  I  told  you  at  Nikko, 
defeated  the  Heike,  and  the  “  death  of  Atsumori  ”  took 
place.  This  delicate  boy,  a  prince  of  the  Heike,  scarcely 
sixteen  years  old,  met  in  the  battle  the  veteran  Nawozane. 
Atsumori  had  fought  bravely  on  the  shore,  having  at  first 
fled,  and  then  returned,  forcing  his  horse  through  the 
water.  The  greater  strength  of  the  older  man  prevailed, 
and  the  child  fell  under  the  blows  of  the  powerful  man-at- 
arms.  When  Nawozane  disengaged  his  enemy’s  helmet, 
intending  to  take  off  the  usual  trophy  of  a  head,  the  sight 
of  the  youthful  face  recalled  his  own  son  slain  in  battle, 
and  he  hesitated  in  inflicting  on  other  parents  a  suffering 
like  his  own.  But  if  he  did  not  kill  him  others  would, 
and  his  reputation  would  be  endangered.  He  killed  him, 
Atsumori  bravely  meeting  death,  and  bore  off  the  terrible 
trophy.  Then,  in  the  revulsion  of  remorse,  he  vowed  him¬ 
self  to  a  religious  life  ;  he  restored  to  Atsumori’s  father 
the  son’s  fair  head  and  his  armor,  and,  going  to  Kioto,  be¬ 
came  a  disciple  in  religion  of  the  holy  Hdnen  Shonin,  the 
founder  of  Kurodani ;  and  there,  near  its  lovely  garden, 
are  the  tombs  of  the  man  and  of  the  boy. 

Or,  while  we  are  thinking  of  heads  cut  off,  I  pass  again 
and  again  a  lofty  monument,  under  great  trees,  on  a  wide 
avenue  beautifully  macadamized,  and  kept  in  the  trim  of 
our  Central  Park,  along  which  ride  officers  in  Western 
uniform,  or  pass  the  police,  in  a  dress  whose  type  is  bor¬ 
rowed  from  at  least  three  European  states.  Under  this 
tomb  are  buried  the  ears  and  noses  of  the  Koreans  slain 
in  the  wars  that  Hideyosni  waged  at  the  end  of  the 

236 


sixteenth  century.  They  were  carried  here  as  more 
convenient  than  the  heads,  the  usual  evidence  of 
work  well  done,  brought  by  the  warriors  to  their  com¬ 
mander.  The  memory  of  what  the  great  pile  means 
serves  to  confuse  still  more  my  admiration  of  the  ultra¬ 
modern  success  of  the  wide  carriage  drive  on  which  it 
stands. 


Osaka,  September  18. 

We  have  come  to  Osaka  to  spend  an  entire  day  in 
bric-a-brac :  to  arrive  early  at  the  big  shop  ;  to  have  tea 
offered  us  in  the  little  back  room  of  the  merchant,  which 
looks  out  and  steps  out  upon  his  garden  of  a  few  trees 
and  little  pebbly  walks  and  some  stone  lanterns  —  a 
garden  that  is  for  us,  which  his  own  may  or  may  not 
be.  Then  cigars,  and  pieces  of  porcelain  brought 
from  the  storehouses ;  then  more  tea,  and  an  in¬ 
spection  of  the  many  rooms  full  of  odds  and  ends. 
Then  more  tea,  and  more  pieces  slowly  and  reluctantly 
drawn  from  the  storehouse,  as  if  we  could  not  be  so 
unreasonable ;  then  lunch  and  tea,  always  in  the  house  ; 
then  adjournment  to  the  upper  rooms,  when  the  hun¬ 
dreds  of  kakemonos  are  unrolled,  one  after  the  other, 
to  a  crescendo  of  exasperation.  Then  rediscussion  of 
matters  below-stairs  and  visits  to  other  rooms  full  of 
wares  not  spoken  of  before ;  then  more  tea,  and  the  last 
pieces  grudgingly  produced  from  the  same  occult  store¬ 
houses ;  purchases  amid  final  bewilderment;  tea  again, 
and  departure. 

We  had  come  to  Osaka  on  our  way  back  from  Nara, 
and  we  again  return  to  Kioto,  which  we  left  three  days 
ago.  The  trip  to  Nara  was  fatiguing  and  delightful,  and 
I  should  like  to  recall  it  for  you,  but  I  have  no  time 
and  have  made  no  notes ;  and,  besides,  my  memories 
are  again  beginning  to  merge  one  into  another,  and  they 


237 


themselves  to  blend  with  what  I  see  in  Kioto.  But  cer¬ 
tainly  something  floats  over,  which  a  few  lines  can  give. 

We  were  out  in  our  kurumas  early  in  the  morning,  each 
with  three  runners.  We  found  Oye-San  waiting  for  us 
patiently,  outside  at  Inari,  where  he  had  expected  us  from 
the  earliest  morning.  It  is  from  him  that  I  get  the  little 
clay  fox,  given  me  for  good  luck,  in  a  partnership  with 
the  one  he  retained.  I  need  not  speak  of  the  heat.  The 
roads  were  dusty  and  dry  where  they  were  not  muddy  and 
wet,  in  the  country  paths  we  took.  We  passed  the  edge 
of  the  city,  which  ends  suddenly  in  rice  fields,  occupying 
what  were  once  streets  and  houses.  For  Kioto  is  only  a 
part  of  what  it  has  been ;  and  even  when  it  was  larger, 
not  so  many  years  back,  it  must  still  have  been  only  the 
remainder  of  a  greater  past. 

As  we  get  into  what  is  really  the  country,  passing 
from  broad  road  to  narrow  tracks,  our  runners  sometimes 
lifted  us  over  soft,  wet  places,  or  bumped  us  over  narrow 
ditches,  or  guided  us,  at  full  tilt,  on  the  edges  of  the 
stones  that  are  bridges.  Sometimes  more  patiently  we 
halted  to  allow  the  files  of  black  bulls  to  meander  past 
us,  dragging  loads  on  wheels  or  carrying  bales. 

Rarely  we  met  peasants,  and  then  usually  women,  some¬ 
times  with  horses  of  a  larger  breed  than  that  we  saw  last 
month  in  the  east.  Once,  among  rice  fields  in  the  basin 
of  a  circle  of  low  hills,  I  saw  the  grove  which  covers  the 
tomb  of  some  divine  emperor  of  early  times.  As  we 
circled  around  the  slope,  far  away  from  this  solitary  oasis 
of  trees,  we  could  see  the  grove  on  every  side,  finished  and 
complete  and  rounded  by  time,  as  if  sculptured  in  nature 
from  some  of  those  sketches  that  Japanese  artists  make  for 
carving  when  they  give  all  four  sides,  and  the  bottom,  and 
the  top,  on  a  single  page.  Nothing  else,  but  perhaps  some 
uninscribed  stone,  marks  the  tomb  of  emperors,  dotted 
about  the  plains  of  this  oldest  province  of  Japan.  Strange 

238 


enough,  even  in  this  strange  country,  is  this  evidence  of 
the  extreme  of  simplicity  in  death,  as  in  life,  of  the  oldest 
line  of  Oriental  despots,  absolute  lords  and  masters,  ever¬ 
present  patterns  of  the  deity,  who  make  this  one  solitary 


PEASANT  WOMAN — THRESHER. 


exception  of  simplicity  in  history.  It  is  as  if  Japan  itself 
was  their  tomb,  as  if  they  passed  back  into  the  nature  of 
which  their  divine  ancestors  were  gods  —  the  gods  of  the 
sun  and  of  the  earth. 


23  9 


Blue  hills  and  pagodas,  and  temples  in  the  distance, 
and  we  came  into  Nara,  which  is  but  a  breath,  a  ruin,  a 
remnant  of  what  it  was.  I  had  been  told  so  often  of  the 
place,  as  a  ruin  among  rice  fields,  that  I  was  unprepared 
for  the  beautiful  lay-out  of  what  remains —  for  the  well- 
planned  roads  and  avenues,  such  as  may  well  have  be¬ 
longed  to  some  great  capital,  such  as  would  have  been 
heard  of  by  travelers  who,  returning  in  days  of  Charle¬ 
magne  from  other  Eastern  cities  to  Byzantium,  might 
have  talked  of  Zipango. 

Nothing  remains  but  a  few  buildings,  belonging  to 
temples,  but  their  approaches  are  splendid,  even  though 
there  be  often  nothing  more  than  the  general  grading  and 
disposition.  I  should  have  written  to  you  from  our  inn, 
where  I  looked,  in  the  evening  and  morning,  toward  the 
slopes  of  distant  hills,  and  heard,  out  of  the  darkness, 
the  sound  of  the  great  bell  which  rang  first  some  eleven 
centuries  ago,  and  the  singing  of  the  frogs  in  the  fields 
which  were  once  a  city.  It  is  now  too  late  to  begin  to 
describe  anything  of  what  I  saw;  anything  of  temple 
buildings,  from  one  of  which  to  another  we  wandered,  or 
of  the  old  statues  and  relics,  or  of  the  religious  dances 
of  young  girls  which  we  looked  at,  standing  or  sitting 
near  the  balustrade  of  the  dancing-shed,  while  inside,  in 
the  greater  shade,  they  moved  to  the  music  and  hymns  of 
the  priests  — red  and  white  figures,  with  long  tresses  of 
black  hair  and  chaplets  of  flowers  ;  with  faces  all  painted 
white,  and  brilliant,  indifferent  eyes  that  saw  me  sketch¬ 
ing  clearly,  however,  and  hands  that  waved,  in  a  cadence 
of  routine,  fans  and  bunches  of  little  bells  with  long 
streamers  of  violet,  blue,  green,  red,  and  white.  Or  of 
the  great  park-like  avenue,  that  made  me  think  of  Eng¬ 
land,  through  which  still  wander  tame  deer,  as  did  those 
that,  long  ago,  served  as  models  for  Okio  the  painter.  I 
fear  that  what  I  have  seen  will  remain  only  as  an  em- 


240 


broidery  upon  the  stuff  that  my  memory  tries  to  un¬ 
roll. 

It  was  late  on  a  sweltering  afternoon  when  we  managed 
to  leave  Nara,  and  we  reached  Horiuji  for  too  short  a 
visit;  for  we  were  due  in  Osaka  the  next  day.  We 
wandered  in  the  late  afternoon  and  evening  through  its 
courts,  kindly  received  by  the  priests,  for  whom  we  had 
the  recommendation  of  a  friendly  name. 

At  least  I  had  time  to  see  the  Golden  Hall,  one  of  the 
earliest  buildings,  now  more  than  twelve  centuries  and  a 
half  old,  and  the  noble  paintings  on  its  walls  attributed  to 
some  famous  sculptor  of  that  day.  Their  placid  elegance, 
the  refinement  of  their  lines,  their  breath  of  religious 
peace,  explained  those  claims  to  a  solemn  and  glorious 
past  for  Japan,  which  look  like  a  conventional  exagger¬ 
ation  in  a  to-day  that  is  delicate  and  small  and  dry. 

The  recall  of  Greek  perfection  was  not  forced,  and 
while  still  vaguely  unwilling  to  confuse  one  excellence 
by  referring  to  another,  I  could  not  help  again  think¬ 
ing  of  the  Greek  and  of  Tanagra  images,  when  I  saw,  by 
the  light  of  the  torches,  in  the  great  pagoda,  as  old  as 
the  great  hall,  groups  modeled  in  clay  by  the  same  old 
sculptor,  whose  name  is  given  to  the  paintings  —  Amida, 
and  Kuwan-on,  and  Monju,  and  the  scenes  of  the  death 
of  Buddha.  An  admirable  antiquity  was  to  be  the  con¬ 
tinuous  impression  of  the  evening,  carried  out  into  our 
last  looks  at  the  Treasure  House.  Its  very  air  of  an  old 
New  England  barn  or  crib  raised  upon  posts,  its  rough 
red  painting,  the  high  wooden  steps  of  entrance,  the  gi¬ 
gantic  wooden  latch-key  with  which  the  guardian  priest 
fumbled  at  its  door,  gave  the  note  of  extreme  early  sim¬ 
plicity —  the  feeling  of  a  persisting  indifference  to  the 
adornments  and  changes  of  centuries  of  fashions. 

It  has  been  useless  all  along  to  detail  anything,  but 
the  impressions  of  the  last  things  seen  remain  with  me  as 
16 


241 


types  of  all.  For  there  hung  on  the  old  walls  of  the 
Treasure  House  a  framed  banner,  once  carried  in  an¬ 
cient  battles,  its  brocaded  pattern  exactly  like  that  which 
we  know  in  Babylonian  art :  the  circles  with  the  lilies 
between,  and  in  each  circle  the  Assyrian  monarch 
struggling  with  lions  —  imitation  or  original  of  coeval 
Sassanian  Persia,  I  suppose,  but  housed  here  all  these 
thousand  years,  and  in  its  persistence  of  pattern  connect¬ 
ing  with  that  heavy  and  oppressive  antiquity  of  Nineveh 
which  knows  nothing  older  than  itself  for  our  story, 
except  oldest  Egypt. 

But  I  was  yet  to  find  something  old  that  would  be 
directly  meant  for  me, — -a  painting  by  the  legendary 
painter  of  Japan,  the  Cimabue  of  a  thousand  years  ago, 
inheritor  or  student  of  still  older  Chinese  art  —  Kose-no- 
Kanaoka. 

The  painting  is  still  in  fair  condition,  though  injuries 
of  time  reveal,  as  usual,  the  methods  used  by  the  painter. 
And  it  was  a  delight  in  me,  in  this  mood  of  veneration 
for  past  greatness,  to  recognize  in  the  veilings  and  se¬ 
quences  of  this  painting  of  the  lotus  methods  I  had  used 
myself,  working  at  such  distance  of  time  and  place,  when 
I  had  tried  to  render  the  tones  and  the  transparency 
of  our  fairy  water-lily  ;  and  I  know  you  will  forgive  the 
superstitious  sense  of  approval  of  my  re-inventions  from 
this  indefinite  past  of  art. 

We  wandered  among  the  buildings  until  night  had  set 
in ;  we  signed  on  the  register  of  visitors,  and  contributed 
a  small  sum  to  the  repairs  of  these  decaying  relics  of  the 
greatness  of  Japan  ;  we  received  some  little  gifts  of  im¬ 
pressions  and  prints  in  acknowledgment,  and  then  rested 
in  the  neighboring  inn,  waited  upon  by  fat,  good-natured 
tea-girls,  most  certainly  belonging  to  to-day. 

We  had  now  to  take  a  long  night  ride,  and  at  length 


242 


we  rushed  out  into  the  moonlight,  our  fourteen  runners 
appearing  and  disappearing  as  we  came  in  and  out  of  the 
shadows  in  the  long  procession  of  our  train. 

We  whirled  past  the  houses  of  the  small  town,  indis¬ 
creetly  close  to  the  paper  screens,  lighted  from  within, 
against  which  were  profiled  the  shadows  of  faces,  some¬ 
times  with  pipes  or  cups  lifted  to  their  lips  or  the  outlines 
of  coiffures  piled  up  on  the  head  —  all  pictures  more  Jap¬ 
anese  than  their  very  originals ;  then  between  rounded 
hills  on  which  stood  masses  of  maple-trees ;  then  near  to 
empty  spaces  of  water ;  then  sank  into  dark  hollows,  at 
the  bottom  of  which  rivers  ran  as  fast  the  other  way. 

I  watched  and  looked  as  long  as  fatigue  allowed,  but 
fell  asleep  in  the  uncomfortable  kuruma,  waked  every  now 
and  then  by  some  sudden  jolt  to  my  extended  arm  and 
head. 

Occasionally  I  had  dreamy  glances  at  what  I  remem¬ 
ber  as  a  vast  plain,  with  lofty,  colorless  mountains  at  one 
side,  and  perhaps  I  saw  glimpses  of  the  sea.  The  night 
air  was  cool  in  the  hollows  after  the  sweltering  day,  and 
I  found  my  arm  and  face  damp  with  the  dew.  A  Japan¬ 
ese  poet  would  have  said  that  it  was  but  the  spray  from 
off  the  oars  of  some  heavenly  boat  which  sailed  that  night 
across  the  starry  stream  of  the  Milky  Way. 

In  the  dawn  we  saw  the  white  walls  of  the  castle  of  the 
city  of  Osaka,  and  ran  across  its  many  bridges,  all  silent 
in  the  morning. 


September  19. 

We  spent  the  late  afternoon  and  early  evening  in  the 
state  apartments  of  the  temple  of  the  Green  Lotus,  where 
we  looked  at  strange  dances  and  listened  to  curious 
music. 

All  was  sacred  and  mystic,  according  to  traditions 
transmitted  orally  from  early  ages,  and  all  the  more  liable 

243 


to  disappear  as  the  heredity  of  occupation  which  has  been 
the  mark  of  Japan  is  more  and  more  endangered  by  mo¬ 
dern  views  and  modern  “  openings.” 

When  we  had  wandered  through  those  shady  apart¬ 
ments  in  the  long,  low  buildings  of  the  temple  gardens, 
and  had  seen  the  paintings  of  their  screen  walls,  and  the 
carvings  of  their  transoms,  we  sat  down  in  one  of  the 
largest  rooms,  the  wall  screen  was  removed  which  di¬ 
vided  us  from  another,  and  we  had  then  a  ready-made 
stage  before  us.  Light  came  in  from  the  open  veranda, 
now  stripped  of  all  screens,  against  whose  platform  many 
unbidden,  unofficial  guests,  acquaintances  of  acquain¬ 
tances,  and  people  about  the  temple,  leaned  in  a  mass  of 
heads  and  arms  and  busts.  Outside  the  light  was  filtered 
green  and  orange  through  the  trees,  and  caught  the  edges 
of  all  forms  in  the  shade  within.  The  orchestra  of  flutes 
and  drums  occupied  a  little  recess,  from  behind  which 
the  dancers  appeared  in  turn.  Behind  the  musicians,  a 
great  violet  curtain,  with  three  temple  crests  in  white, 
made  a  twilight  background  for  their  white  and  blue 
dresses,  gilded  by  the  lights  in  the  tall  candlesticks  on  the 
floors  before  them.  With  the  sound  of  the  instruments 
two  boys  came  around  the  corner  of  the  screen,  and,  salut¬ 
ing,  stepped  off  in  short,  zigzag  movements,  evidently 
learned  by  rote,  and  which  had  a  certain  strange  ele¬ 
gance.  They  were  performing  the  butterfly  dance,  and 
made  out  very  distinctly  the  crisscross  flight  of  the  insects. 
When  they  lighted  or  poised  before  lighting  their  feet 
struck  the  ground  and  they  swayed  without  stepping 
away.  They  wore  butterfly  wings,  and  wide  sleeves  melt¬ 
ing  into  them,  and  their  silver  diadems,  filled  up  with 
twigs  of  flowering  plants,  made  out  a  faint  fringe  of  an¬ 
tennae.  They  wore  the  ugly  ancient  trousers  of  yellow 
silk,  and  long  trains  of  embroidered  green  satin  trailed  on 
the  mats  behind  them.  Broad  bands  of  blue  and  white 


244 


across  the  chest,  and  a  white  belt,  recalled  the  insect  orig¬ 
inal,  and  blue  and  white  wings  drooped  over  their  wide 
green  satin  garments.  Each  carried  a  flowering  branch 
in  his  hand.  It  was  all  more  strange  than  beautiful, 
with  a  mysterious  impression  of  remote  antiquity,  as 
if  invented  for  some  prehistoric  Polynesian  worship.  In 
some  of  the  next  dances,  whose  names  I  do  not  remem¬ 
ber,  and  which  were  carried  out  by  men,  the  flat  mask, 
with  a  wide  triangle  for  eyes  and  another  for  the  mouth, 
made  out  just  this  similitude.  In  another  dance  two  men 
glided  about  the  room,  listening  and  finding  their  way ; 
then  warriors  in  antique  Chinese  costume,  with  great  hel¬ 
mets  and  halberds,  and  coats  of  mail,  and  long  trains, 
appeared  singly  and  by  twos,  and  marched  and  counter¬ 
marched  ;  and  finally,  standing  by  their  lances,  laid  at 
their  feet,  drew  and  held  up  their  swords,  while  each 
other  peaceful  hand  was  extended  in  the  gesture  that  we 
know  as  the  pontifical  blessing ;  and  this  ended  the  dance 
of  “Great  Peace,”  probably  some  relic  of  early  triumphant 
Chinese  dynasties. 

It  was  now  evening :  the  blue  light  of  the  open  veranda 
made  large  square  openings  in  the  golden  room.  Out¬ 
side,  against  the  balustrade,  pressed  dark  forms,  with 
faces  reddened  by  the  light  inside  —  the  outside  lookers- 
on.  Inside,  the  gold  walls  and  the  gilded  ceiling,  the 
great  gold  temple  drum,  the  yellow  mats,  and  the  white 
dresses  of  the  musicians,  made  a  soft  bloom  like  the  hol¬ 
low  of  a  lotus,  when  the  last  performer,  in  rose-red  and 
crimson,  glided  into  the  room,  swinging  from  side  to  side, 
and  brandishing  a  gilded  scepter.  Uncouth  gestures  and 
enormous  strides,  with  no  meaning  that  I  could  make  out, 
a  frightful  mask  that  hung  far  away  from  the  face,  with 
loose  jaw  and  projecting  mane  and  a  long  red,  pointed 
hood,  made  an  impression  as  barbarous,  as  meaningless, 
as  splendid,  and  as  annoying  as  what  we  might  feel  before 

16*  245 


the  painted  and  gilded  idol  of  some  little  known  and 
cruel  creed.  This  was  the  dance  of  “  Ra  Dragon  King,” 
and  closed  the  entertainment. 

We  exchanged  some  words  with  the  late  performers  in 
their  insignificant  everyday  clothes,  and  rode  home  in  the 
twilight  through  the  little  roads,  where  Kioto  gentlemen 
were  rushing  their  horses  up  and  down,  wrapped  in  wide 
riding  trousers,  which  fluttered  along  the  horses’  flanks.  .  .  . 

We  have  also  given  a  soiree , —  that  is  to  say,  a  supper, 
with  the  proper  trimmings  of  musical  entertainment  and 
dancing,  and  were  probably  the  most  amused  of  all  the 
people  there.  The  amusement  consisted,  in  great  meas¬ 
ure,  of  our  not  knowing  just  what  we  were  going  to  have, 
for  otherwise  the  details  were  simple  to  monotony.  We 
had  one  of  the  upper  floors  of  a  fashionable  inn.  It  was 
very  hot,  and  we  were  glad  to  find  that  we  should  be  at 
supper  in  our  loosest  bath  robes.  There  was  nothing  un¬ 
usual —  though  everything  is  novel  to  us— -but  the  ex¬ 
treme  smallness  of  the  many  gei-shas,  who  sat  between  us 
at  the  end  of  the  dinner,  passed  the  sake,  said  witty  things, 
of  which  we  understood  not  one  word,  gave  us  much  music 
on  the  samisen  (the  three-stringed  guitar)  and  on  the 
flute,  and  sang,  and  gave  us  dances.  But  they  were  ab¬ 
solutely  incredible  in  the  way  of  littleness.  It  did  not 
seem  possible  that  there  were  real  bones  inside  their  nar¬ 
row  little  wrists  and  dolls’  fingers.  What  there  was  in 
most  of  their  little  heads  I  don’t  know,  but  I  could 
have  imagined  sawdust.  For  the  doll  illusion,  for  the 
painted  face  and  neck  and  lips,  all  done  upon  the  same 
pattern  from  pure  conventionality  (not  at  all  like  our 
suggestive  painting),  and  the  sudden  stopping  sharply 
at  a  line  on  the  little  slender  neck,  gave  me  the  feeling 
of  their  having  artificial  heads.  The  gentle  little  bodies 
disappeared  entirely  inside  of  the  folds  of  the  dress 

246 


A  PILGRIM. 


and  the  enormous  bows  of  the  sash.  And  when  the  tall 
youngsters,  Americans,  whom  we  had  invited,  began  to 
romp  with  the  playthings,  late  in  the  evening,  I  felt 
anxious  about  possible  breakage,  such  as  I  remember, 
in  nursery  days,  when  we  boys  laid  hold  of  our  sisters’ 
dolls. 

But  this  artificial  impression  disappears  as  with  all 
novelty  in  people,  and  when  one  of  the  youngest  of 
these  child-women,  at  some  moment  in  the  evening,  re¬ 
moved  the  mask  of  the  jolly  fat  woman  (that  you  know 
by  the  prints),  behind  which  she  had  been  singing,  the 
little  sad  face  told  its  contradictory  story  as  touchingly  as 
with  any  of  her  Aryan  sisters.  And  late  in  the  evening, 
when  the  fun,  I  suppose,  was  uproarious,  we  went  to  the 
extreme  of  writing  and  painting  on  fans,  and  one  of  our 
merchant  guests  wasted  India-ink  in  mock  tattooing  of 
his  bared  arm  and  shoulder. 

September  21. 

We  leave  to-morrow  morning. 

This  has  been  Sunday,  our  last  day  in  Kioto.  I  have 
been  trundled  all  day  in  a  fearful  rain,  to  see  last  sights, 
to  look  up  shops  for  the  last  time.  My  runners  have 
taken  me  to  this  or  that  place,  near  the  great  temples, 
where  I  hope  finally  to  decide  upon  some  little  Buddha 
or  Amida,  which  have  tempted  me  among  other  sculp¬ 
tures,  and  I  have  dallied  in  the  other  shops  that  supply 
the  small  things  that  adhere  to  worship,  and  finally  I  have 
made  a  long  visit  to  the  good  lady  who  has  sold  me  pot¬ 
tery,  and  who  once  shocked  my  Western  prudery  by  dilat¬ 
ing  upon  the  merits  of  unmentionable  designs  and  inde¬ 
scribable  bric-a-brac. 

At  length  I  return  in  the  gray  noon,  giving  a  last  look 
at  each  shop  that  I  know ;  at  the  long  fafade  of  the  “  Inn 
of  Great  Wealth,”  at  the  signs  and  the  flags  of  the  theater ; 
at  the  little  gei-skas  trotting  about  in  couples,  whom  I  re- 

249 


cognize  (for  how  can  I  tell  them  from  those  whom  I 
know  ?)  ;  at  the  quaint,  amusing  little  children,  always  a 
fresh  delight ;  at  the  little  pavilion  near  us,  where  the 
archers  shoot ;  at  the  places  where  horses  stand  under  the 
trees  to  be  ridden  by  amateurs  ;  at  the  small  tea  garden’s 
pretty  gates ;  at  the  latticed  windows  which  open  in  the 
dusk ;  and  then,  with  their  coats  sticking  to  their  backs, 
and  wet,  stained  legs,  my  runners  leave  me  at  the  gate  of 
the  hotel ;  final  settlement  of  purchases  in  boxes,  packing, 
and  receiving  visits  of  departure. 

In  the  late  afternoon  we  go  to  the  temples  on  the  edge 
of  the  hill  near  us  (the  temples  of  Kiyomidzu)  with  two 
of  our  good  friends  and  their  children.  Our  runners  in¬ 
sist  upon  dragging  and  bumping  us  up  many  steps,  and 
finally  escort  us,  almost  to  the  temple  itself,  in  a  proces¬ 
sion  of  double  file,  which,  like  a  long  tail,  halts  when  we 
stop,  and  again  waggles  after  us  in  uncertainty  when  we 
set  off  anew.  We  walk  along  the  ascending  street  and 
stop  to  bargain  at  the  innumerable  little  shops,  full  of  little 
odds  and  ends,  half  playthings  and  half  religious  emblems 
or  images,  which  are  sold  certainly  to  the  pleasure  of  the 
many  children  who  throng  the  place.  And  I,  too,  feel 
pleased  at  having  children  with  us,  and  at  having  occasion¬ 
ally  the  timid  little  fingers  of  Miss  Kimi  in  mine.  In  her 
other  small  hand  she  holds  a  fan  that  I  painted  yester¬ 
day  for  her  father,  and  I  wonder  occasionally  whether  she 
wishes  me  to  notice  her  possession.  I  surmise  that  the 
foreign  gentleman  gives  her  sometimes  a  little  doubtful 
fear,  as  I  catch  her  eyes  looking  up  cautiously  from  be¬ 
low  her  “bangs.”  We  talk,  exactly  of  what  it  would  be 
hard  to  say,  for  there  is  not  with  us  enough  of  any  one 
language  “  to  go  round,”  and  our  interpreter  has  been 
left  out ;  but  we  feel  distinctly  that  we  understand  each 
other,  and  our  older  companions  explain  quite  a  number 
of  things  in  this  partnership  of  a  few  words. 


250 


We  ascend  the  high  steps  on  one  side  of  the  tower  and 
pass  with  the  Sunday  crowd  through  the  great  hall,  like 
a  corridor,  along  which  are  seated  on  altar  steps  golden 
images  of  gods,  in  a  shadow  dusted  by  the  long  beams  of 
the  afternoon  sun,  that  pour  across  it  from  one  open  side. 
Through  this  veil  of  dancing  motes  we  see  the  statues  and 
the  great  gilded  lotuses  and  candelabra,  and  the  forms  of 
attendant  priests,  and  the  crowd  that  passes,  and  that 
stops  for  a  moment  in  prayer.  The  words  that  they  re¬ 
peat  come  into  cadence  with  the  shuffling  of  their  feet, 
and  the  creaking  of  the  planks  of  the  flooring,  and  the 
sounds  of  the  dropping  of  offerings. 

The  crowd  is  quiet,  orderly,  but  amused  at  being  out. 
The  women  smile  out  of  their  slanting  eyes  and  walk 
leaning  forwards,  and  their  black  hair  shines  like  lacquer, 
and  the  artificial  flowers  in  the  great  folds  of  the  coiffure 
dance  in  the  sunlight.  They  are  quietly  dressed,  all  but 
the  young  girls,  who  wear  bright  colors  and  blue  satin 
sashes.  The  men  slide  about,  also  in  quiet  silk  or  cotton. 
A  large  part  of  them  are  dressed  in  every  shade  of  blue  ; 
occasionally  the  bare  leg  comes  out,  but  all  wear  holiday 
dress,  except  our  runners  or  their  fellows,  who  keep 
their  workday  looks.  And  the  children  — -  they  are  all 
everywhere,  and  all  at  home  ;  they  are  all  dressed  up, 
with  full,  many-colored  skirts,  and  showy  sashes,  and 
every  little  head  with  some  new  and  unexplainable  spot 
of  tonsure. 

Many  of  the  crowd  turn  around  the  building,  or  its 
veranda,  touching  the  columns  with  their  hands  and 
following  tracks,  worn  deep  like  ruts,  in  the  planking  of 
enormous  thickness.  Oye-San  points  this  out  to  me, 
and  indicates  its  religious  intention.  Both  he  and  our 
other  companion  clap  their  hands  and  pray  for  a  moment. 
A  wave  of  seriousness  and  abstraction  passes  over  their 
faces ;  then  again  all  is  as  before,  and  we  step  out  upon 

251 


the  wide  balcony,  which,  built  upon  gigantic  piles,  hangs 
over  a  deep  hollow  filled  with  trees  and  buildings,  all  in 
the  shadow  now.  From  below  rise,  with  the  coolness  of 
the  green  trees  and  grass,  the  sounds  of  dropping  waters. 
In  time  we  descend  the  path  and  the  steps,  and  drink 
from  one  of  the  streams  which  fall  from  gigantic  gar¬ 
goyles,  out  of  a  great  mass  of  wall. 

But  it  is  late :  we  look  again  upon  Kioto  from  the 
temple  above,  all  swimming  in  light  and  haze,  and  walk 
back  to  our  kurumas ;  a  final  good-by  to  the  children, 
but  we  shall  see  their  parents  again ;  and  then  we  return, 
and  look  from  our  veranda  for  the  last  time  at  the  city 
stretched  out  in  the  evening,  lost  almost  entirely  in  the 
twilight  of  a  great  lake  of  violet  fog.  A  few  shapes  are 
just  felt  in  the  misty  space,  but  no  more  than  as  waves 
in  water,  or  as  greater  densities  in  the  undulations  of 
the  colored  vapor.  So  uncertain  is  everything  that  the 
nearest  temple  building  loses  its  place,  and  floats  all  be¬ 
low  its  roof ;  but  its  wet  tiles  glitter,  reflecting  the  rose- 
colored  drift  in  the  highest  pale  turquoise  sky. 

Below  us,  the  trees  make  a  delicate  pattern  of  dark, 
wet  lace. 

Then  the  rose-color  deepens  and  dulls,  the  upper  sky 
becomes  colorless ;  all  floats  in  unreal  space,  and  Kioto 
disappears  from  before  my  eyes:  forever,  I  suppose  — as 
the  charm  of  this  scene,  which  will  never  come  again ; 
as  the  little  maiden  whom  I  met  to-day,  only  for  an 
eternal  good-by. 


252 


A  JAPANESE  DAY.— FROM  KIOTO  TO  GIFU 


Nagoya,  September. 

Notwithstanding  the  long  parting,  which  kept 

us  up  very  late,  the  same  courteous  Japanese  friends 
were  at  the  hotel  in  the  morning  to  bid  us  a  still  more 
final  good-by.  Oye-San  alone  remained  faithful  to  his 
self-intrusted  care  of  us,  and  determined  to  see  us  as  far 
as  the  land  would  allow, —  that  is  to  say,  to  the  shores  of 
Biwa  Lake. 

The  caravan  was  smaller  now,  diminished  by  our  part¬ 
ing  with  Awoki,  the  interpreter,  and  the  men  necessary  to 
trundle  him  about.  Still  we  were  a  goodly  company,— 
nineteen  men  in  all,  of  whom  two  were  masters,  one  the 
servant,  and  the  rest  the  runners  who  were  to  get  us  and 
our  baggage  to  Otzu  on  Biwa  Lake  long  before  noon. 
There  was  to  be  no  novelty  on  our  road,  it  being  merely 
the  highway  from  the  capital  to  the  lake.  It  was  a  lovely 
morning,  the  sun  long  risen,  and  all  the  places  and  build¬ 
ings  now  a  part  of  our  memories  glistening  in  the  shadow 
and  the  dew.  We  turned  our  backs  for  the  last  time  on 
Kiyomidzu,  and  ran  through  the  great  gate  of  the  temple 
near  us;  then,  bumping  down  the  steep  steps  under  it, 
skirted  the  great  wall  of  Dai  Butzu  and  the  interminable 
side  of  the  Sanjiu  sangendo  (the  hall  of  the  thirty-three 
spaces),1  along  which  in  old  times  the  archers  used  to  shoot. 
Then  we  gradually  got  out  of  the  city,  into  the  road  filled 
with  traffic  going  both  ways.  There  seemed  to  be  no  break 
between  town  and  country.  Here  and  there  the  moun- 

1  Three  hundred  and  eighty-nine  feet  long. 

253 


tain  side,  covered  with  trees,  descended  to  the  road.  But 
the  effect  was  that  of  a  long  street,  deep  among  hills,  and 
continuously  spotted  with  buildings.  Long  trains  of  beau¬ 
tiful  black  bulls,  drawing  lumber  or  merchandise,  or  carry¬ 
ing  straw-covered  bales,  streamed  peacefully  along.  We 
passed  peasant  women, —  hardy,  tall,  sometimes  handsome, 
with  scarlet  undergowns  held  up  ;  occasionally  one  riding 
on  a  pack-horse,  or  in  her  place  a  child  perched  on  the 
hump  of  the  wooden  saddle.  Or,  again,  peasants  bearing 
loads  on  their  backs,  or  carriers  with  weighty  merchan¬ 
dise  swung  between  them  on  poles ;  priests,  young  and 
old,  stepping  gravely  in  their  white,  or  yellow,  or  black 
dresses  —  some  with  umbrellas  open,  others,  whose  quicker 
step  meant  that  they  had  not  far  to  go  (perhaps  only  to 
some  wayside  temple),  protecting  their  shaven  heads  with 
outspread  fan.  Or  a  kuruma,  usually  with  one  runner, 
taking  into  town,  economically,  two  women  together,  one 
old,  one  young,  and  followed  by  another  kuruma  carrying 
some  old  gentleman,  very  thin  or  very  fat,  the  head  of  a 
family.  Kurumas  carrying  Japanese  tourists  or  travelers, 
with  hideous  billycock  hats,  or  Anglo-Indian  helmets,  or 
wide  straw  hats  a  la  mode  de  Third  Avenue,  these  abom¬ 
inable  head-pieces  contrasting  with  their  graceful  gowns, 
as  did  their  luggage,  wrapped  up  in  silk  handkerchiefs 
with  their  European  traveling  rugs.  Or,  again,  other  ku¬ 
rumas  carrying  unprotected  females  in  pairs,  with  the 
usual  indifferent  or  forlorn  look;  or  couples  of  young  girls 
more  gaily  dressed,  with  flowery  hairpins,  the  one  evi¬ 
dently  a  chaperon  to  the  other ;  then  a  Government  offi¬ 
cial,  all  European,  with  hurrying  runners ;  sometimes, 
but  rarely,  the  Japanese  litter,  or  kago,  or  several  if  for  a 
party,  their  occupants  lying  at  their  ease  as  to  their  backs, 
but  twisted  into  knots  as  to  their  feet,  and  swaying  with 
the  movement  of  the  trotting  carriers.  Bent  to  one  side 
by  the  heavy  ridgepole,  which  passes  too  low  to  allow  the 

254 


head  to  lie  in  the  axis  of  the  body,  sweet-eyed  women’s 
faces,  tea-rose  or  peach-colored,  looked  up  from  the  bam¬ 
boo  basket  of  the  litter.  With  proper  indifference  their 
lords  and  masters  looked  at  us  obliquely.  On  the  roofs 
was  spread  a  miscellaneous  quantity  of  luggage. 

From  time  to  time  troopers  or  officers,  of  course  in 
European  costume,  mounted  on  Japanese  chargers,  can¬ 
tered  past.  Two  hours  of  this  ;  then  the  sides  of  the 
road,  which  had  risen  and  fallen  with  hill  and  valley, 
melted  away,  and  the  harbor  of  Otzu  and  Lake  Biwa 
and  blue  mountains  over  the  water,  and  others  sketched 
in  the  air,  were  spread  before  us  in  the  blaze  of  sunlight 
seen  through  the  cool  shadow  of  the  mountains. 

We  rode  down  the  hill  to  a  little  jetty,  marvelously 
like  a  North  River  dock,  with  big  sheds  where  passengers 
were  waiting,  and  a  little  steamer  fastened  to  the  wharf. 
We  bade  good-by  for  the  last  time  to  Oye-San,  who 
said  many  things  that  we  appreciated  but  did  not  under¬ 
stand  the  words  of,  and  who  pointed  to  the  square  Japan¬ 
ese  sails  glittering  in  the  far-off  light,  saying,  “Fune, 
Fune!”  (“The  boats,  the  boats!’’)  We  dismissed  kurumas 
and  kurumaya  and  sailed  off  with  Hakodate  (the  courier) 
alone.  We  stretched  ourselves  on  the  upper  deck,  half 
in  sun,  half  in  shadow,  and  blinked  lazily  at  the  distant 
blue  mountains  and  the  great  sea-like  lake. 

Two  hours  later  we  had  landed  at  a  long  jetty,  in  a 
heavy  sea,  with  tossing  dark  blue  water,  different  from 
the  quiet  azure  of  our  sail.  The  brisk  wind,  blowing  the 
white  clouds  over  the  blue  sky,  was  clear  and  cold.  We 
got  out  of  its  reach,  as  I  felt  neuralgic,  and  tried  to  sleep 
in  a  little  tea-house,  waking  to  the  screams  of  the  tea¬ 
house  girl,  “Mairimasho!”  and  I  had  but  time  to  get  into 
the  train.  Whether  it  started  from  there  or  had  arrived 
there,  I  never  knew.  I  had  been  glad  to  forget  everything 
in  dreamland. 


255 


I  remember  little  of  my  railroad  ride,  what  with  neural¬ 
gia  and  heat,  and  the  effects  of  the  dance  of  the  little 
steamer  on  Lake  Biwa.  There  were  mountains  and  ra¬ 
vines,  and  vast  engineering  protections  for  our  path,  and 
everywhere  the  evidence  of  a  struggle  with  the  many 
running  waters  we  crossed  or  skirted.  The  blue  and  sil¬ 
ver  of  the  lake  that  we  had  crossed,  and  the  sweetness 
of  its  air,  were  shut  out  in  the  dust  and  the  heat  of  moun¬ 
tain  sides.  We  had  not  seen  the  Eight  Beauties  of  Biwa 
Lake.1  The  “Autumn  Moon  from  Ishiyama  ”  had  set 
long  before  we  passed,  and  the  idea  of  other  temples  to 
be  seen  brought  out  A - ’s  antagonism  to  more  climb¬ 

ing,  only  to  be  rewarded  by  promenades  through  lanterns 
and  shrines  and  confused  struggling  with  dates  and  divin¬ 
ities.  “The  Evening  Snow  on  Hira-yama  ”  was  not  to 
fall  until  we  should  be  across  the  Pacific ;  nor  could  we 
ask  of  that  blue  September  morning  “  The  Blaze  of  Eve¬ 
ning  at  Seta”  nor  “The  Evening  Bell  of  Mii-dera”  — 
though  we  heard  the  bell  early,  and  wondered  whether 
it  were  still  uninjured,  from  the  time  when  big  Benkei 
carried  it  off  and  exchanged  it  for  too  much  soup,  exactly 
seven  hundred  years  ago;  nor  “  Rain  by  Night  at  Kara- 
saki,”  the  place  of  the  famous  pine-tree,  which  was  grow¬ 
ing,  they  say,  twenty-four  hundred  years  ago,  when  Jim- 
mu  was  emperor.  There  I  might  have  met,  perhaps,  the 
“  Old  Man  and  the  Old  Woman  ”  you  have  seen  over 
and  over  again  in  the  pictures  and  on  the  fans=  (They 
are  the  spirits  of  the  other  old  pine-trees  of  Takasago 
and  Sumiyoshi,  and  they  are  fond  of  visiting  each  other.) 
Nor  did  we  see  “  The  Wild  Geese  alighting  at  Katada,” 
but  I  felt  as  if  I  had  seen  “The  Boats  sailing  back  from 
Yabase”  and  “The  Bright  Sky  with  a  Breeze  at  Awadzu.” 
If  I  had  not,  I  still  had  seen  boats  sailing  over  and  un¬ 
der  as  lovely  a  blue  as  can  be  spread  by  early  September 

1  Omi-no-hakkei. 

256 


days.  I  suppose  that  our  friend  Oye-San  was  trying  to 
recall  these  last  classical  quotations  to  me  when  he  bade 
me  good-by  at  the  landing  in  Otzu.  An  ocean  rolls  be¬ 
tween  his  Parnassus  and  ours,  but  he  lives  much  nearer 
to  the  mood  that  once  made  beautiful  the  names  of  Tempe 
and  Helicon  and  the  winding  Meander. 

With  all  this  dreaming  I  fell  asleep,  and  woke  free 
from  pain,  but  stupid  and  unimpressionable,  as  our  train 
stopped  at  the  little  station  from  which  we  were  to  ride 
to  Gifu.  This  was  a  little,  new  way-station  (of  course  I 
don’t  remember  its  name),  so  like,  and  so  unlike,  one  of 


ours,  with  the  same  look  of  the  railroad  being  laid  down 
— “imposed” — on  an  earth  which  did  not  understand 
what  it  all  meant  —  grass  struggling  to  get  back  to 
the  sides  of  filled-up  ditches;  timbers  lying  about;  new, 
astonished  buildings,  in  one  of  which  we  washed,  and 
waited,  and  dined.  Meanwhile  Hakodate  went  after  the 
runners  who  were  to  drag  us  on  our  afternoon  ride,  and 
then,  if  “we  suited,”  to  run  with  us  the  whole  week,  thirty- 
five  miles  a  day,  along  the  Tokaido,  back  toward  Yoko¬ 
hama. 

When  all  was  ready  it  was  late  afternoon,  and  our  pro- 
17  257 


cession  ran  along  what  seemed  to  be  a  vast  plain  of  table¬ 
land,  with  high  mountains  for  an  edge.  All  seemed  as 
clear  and  neat  as  the  air  we  rode  in.  Somewhere  there 
we  must  have  passed  the  hill  of  “The  Turning  Back  of 
the  Chariot”  :  this  means  that,  long  ago, —  that  is  to  say, 
about  1470, —  the  regent  Yoshimoto,  while  traveling  here, 
found  that  the  inhabitants,  to  do  him  honor,  had  put  in 
order,  neat  and  trim,  the  thatch  of  every  building.  What 
the  prince  was  looking  for  is  what  we  call  the  picturesque. 
To  miss  all  the  charms  that  ruin  brings  was  too  much 
for  his  esthetic  soul,  and  he  ordered  the  wheels  of  his  char¬ 
iot  to  be  turned  for  home.  So  did  not  we.  Neater  and 
neater  grew  the  inclosures,  farms,  and  villages  ;  the  fences 
had  pretty  gates, —  curious  patterns  of  bamboo  pickets, 
—  a  far-away,  out- of- the -world  flavor  of  Holland  or 
Flanders.  Even  the  ordinary  setting  out  of  wayside  trees, 
in  this  province  of  forestry,  insisted  on  the  analogy,  con¬ 
fused  perhaps  with  a  dream  of  Lombard  plains  and  moun¬ 
tains  in  a  cool  blue  distance,  for  the  mind  insists  on 
clinging  to  reminiscences,  as  if  afraid  to  trust  itself  to 
the  full  sea  of  new  impressions. 

As  I  rode  along,  so  neat  and  clean  was  each  picture, 
framed  in  sunlight  if  we  were  in  shadow,  or  in  clear  shade 
when  we  were  in  sunlight,  that  I  thought  I  could  remem¬ 
ber  enough  small  facts  for  sketches  and  notes  when  I 
should  get  to  Gifu.  We  reached  Gifu  in  the  early  twi¬ 
light,  and  had  no  special  one  impression  ;  we  were  framed 
in  by  the  streets,  and  confused  by  turning  corners,  and 
disturbed  by  anxiety  to  get  in.  But  we  had  one  great 
triumph.  Our  guide  was  new  to  the  place  —  as  we  were; 
and  we  chose  our  -inn  at  our  own  sweet  will,  with  a 
feeling  of  authority  and  personal  responsibility  delicious 
to  experience  after  such  ignominy  of  guidance.  Up  we 
went  to  our  rooms,  and  opening  the  shojis 1  looked  out 

1  Sliding  screens,  which  take  the  place  of  our  windows. 

258 


upon  the  river,  which  seemed  broad  as  a  great  lake. 
Our  house  was  right  upon  it,  and  the  open  casement 
framed  nothing  but  water  and  pointed  mountains,  steal¬ 
ing  away  in  the  obscure  clearness  of  a  colorless  twilight. 
The  running  of  the  river,  sloping  down  from  the  hills  on 
a  bed  of  pebbles,  cut  off  the  noises  of  the  town,  if  there 
were  any,  and  the  silence  was  like  that  of  far-away  coun¬ 
try  heights.  In  this  semi-painful  tension  the  day’s  pic¬ 
tures  disappeared  from  my  mind.  I  was  all  prepared  to 
have  something  happen,  for  which  I  should  have  been 
listening,  when  suddenly  our  host  appeared,  to  say  that 
the  boats  were  coming  down  the  river.  The  chilly  eve¬ 
ning  air  gave  us  new  freshness,  and  off  we  started,  deaf 
to  the  remonstrances  of  Hakodate,  who  had  prepared  and 
set  out  his  very  best  for  supper.  We  rushed  past  the 
artist  in  cookery,  whose  feelings  I  could  yet  appreciate, 
and  plunged  after  our  host  into  the  dark  streets.  In  a 
few  minutes  we  were  by  the  riverside,  and  could  see  far 
off  what  we  took  for  our  boat,  with  its  roof  and  lanterns. 
The  proffered  backs  of  our  lantern-bearing  attendants 
gave  the  solution  of  how  we  were  to  get  to  it.  Strad¬ 
dling  our  human  nags,  we  were  carried  far  out  into  the 
shallow,  pebbly  river,  landed  into  the  boat,  and  poled 
out  into  deeper  water,  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  night 
and  the  conical  hills,  one  of  which  I  fancied  to  be  Inaba, 
where  was  once  Nobunaga’s  castle.  Some  faint  mists 
were  white  in  the  distance,  as  if  lighted  by  a  rising  moon. 
At  no  great  distance  from  us,  perhaps  at  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  a  light  flickered  over  the  water.  On  our  approach 
we  could  distinguish  a  man  connected  with  it,  who  ap¬ 
parently  walked  on  the  dark  surface.  He  was  evidently 
a  fisherman  or  a  shrimper,  and  his  movements  had  all 
the  strangeness  of  some  long-legged  aquatic  bird.  He 
knew  his  path,  and,  far  out,  followed  some  track  or  ford, 
adding  to  the  loneliness  as  does  a  crane  in  a  marshy 


259 


landscape.  Then  I  saw  him  no  more,  for  he  headed  up 
the  river  toward  an  opening  between  the  hills.  Sud¬ 
denly  a  haze  of  light  rounded  the  corner  of  the  nearest 
mountain,  then  grew  into  a  line  of  fire  coming  toward 
us.  Above  the  rustle  of  the  river’s  course,  and  our  own 
against  it,  came  the  beating  of  a  cry  in  unison.  The  line 
of  flame  broke  into  many  fires,  and  we  could  see  the 
boats  rushing  down  upon  us.  As  quickly  as  I  can  write 
it,  they  came  in  an  even  line,  wide  apart  —  perhaps  fifty 
feet  or  so  —  enough  for  us  to  pass  between,  whereupon 
we  reversed  our  movement  and  drifted  along  with  them. 
In  the  front  of  each  boat,  hung  upon  a  bent  pole,  blazed 
a  large  cresset  filled  with  pine  knots,  making  above  a 
cloud  of  smoke,  starred  with  sparks  and  long  needles  of 
red  cinders.  Below,  in  the  circle  of  each  light,  and  on  its 
outer  rim,  swam  many  birds,  glossy  black  and  white  cor¬ 
morants,  straining  so  at  the  cords  that  held  them  that 
they  appeared  to  be  dragging  the  boats.  As  they  spread 
like  a  fan  before  the  dark  shadow  of  the  bows,  the  cords 
which  fastened  them  glistened  or  were  black  in  the  night. 
Each  string  ran  through  the  fingers  of  the  master-fisher 
at  the  bows,  and  was  fastened  to  his  waist  and  lost  in  the 
glittering  straw  of  his  rain-skirt.  Like  a  four-in-hand 
driver,  he  seemed  to  feel  his  birds’  movements.  His  fin¬ 
gers  loosened  or  tightened,  or,  as  suddenly,  with  a  clutch 
pulled  back.  Then  came  a  rebellious  fluttering,  and  the 
white  glitter  of  fish  in  the  beaks  disappeared  —  unavail- 
ingly;  each  bird  was  forcibly  drawn  up  to  the  gunwale, 
and  seized  by  the  neck  encircled  by  its  string-bearing 
collar.  Then  a  squeeze  —  a  white  fish  glittered  out  again 
and  was  thrown  back  into  the  boat.  The  bird  scuttled 
away,  dropped  back  into  the  water,  and,  shaking  itself, 
was  at  work  again.  They  swam  with  necks  erect,  their 
eyes  apparently  looking  over  everything,  and  so  indiffer¬ 
ent  to  small  matters  as  to  allow  the  big  cinders  to  lie  un- 

260 


FISHING  WITH  CORMORANTS 


17 ’ 


. 


noticed  on  their  oily,  flat  heads.  But,  every  few  seconds, 
one  would  stoop  down,  then  throw  back  its  head  wildly 
with  a  fish  crosswise  in  its  mouth.  When  that  fish  was  a 
small  one  it  was  allowed  by  the  master  of  the  bird  to 
remain  in  the  capacious  gullet.  Each  pack  guided  by  a 
master  varied  in  numbers,  but  I  counted  thirteen  fastened 
to  the  waist  of  the  fisherman  nearest  to  us.  Behind  him 
stood  another  poling:  then  farther  back  an  apprentice, 
with  a  single  bird,  was  learning  to  manage  his  fea¬ 
thered  tools.  In  the  stern  stood  the  steersman,  using  a 
long  pole.  Every  man  shouted,  as  huntsmen  encourag¬ 
ing  a  pack,  “  Hoo  !  Hoo  !  Hoo  !  ” —  making  the  cry 
whose  rhythm  we  had  heard  when  the  flotilla  bore  down 
upon  us. 

Ten  minutes,  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  more  passed  as  we 
kept  alongside  with  motionless  celerity.  I  tried  to  sketch 
in  the  insufficient  light  —  making  sometimes  one  sketch 
right  upon  another,  so  little  could  I  see  my  lines  in  the 
treacherous  light.  Then  the  boats  swerved  off  and  were 
driven  to  the  shore  together,  or  as  far  as  we  could  get  to 
it,  in  the  shallow  water.  Above  us  rose  the  steep  green 
hillside,  the  trees  and  rocks  lit  up  in  an  arabesque  of  light 
and  dark  by  the  now  diminished  flames. 

The  birds  rested,  standing  in  the  water,  preening  their 
oily  backs  and  white  bellies,  and  flapping  their  ragged 
wings,  which  seemed  to  have  been  clipped.  The  ap¬ 
prentice  caressed  his  bird,  the  fishermen  and  the  steerers 
laughed  and  exchanged  jokes  and  chatted  generally,  with 
all  the  good  nature  and  making  light  of  hard  work  which 
is  so  essentially  Japanese. 

Then  the  birds  began  to  fight,  and  to  show  that  peace 
was  not  their  pleasure.  Fresh  pine  knots  were  thrown 
into  the  cressets;  each  man  took  his  place;  the  polers 
pushed  off;  the  birds  strained  at  the  strings;  and  all  da 
capo.  A  little  longer  we  watched,  and  then  we  let  the 

26  3 


boats  glide  past  us ;  the  fires  faded  again  into  a  haze  of 
light  as  they  went  down  the  river  toward  the  bridges  of 
the  town,  now  dotted  with  people. 

Then  we  were  carried  to  the  shore  as  we  had  left  it, 
and  were  piloted  home  through  the  streets,  now  filled 
with  lanterns  and  movement.  We  found  our  outraged 
artist  in  cookery  still  indignant  over  our  neglect  of  food, 
but  he  was  gradually  appeased,  and  made  up  for  his 
hungry  masters  a  fairly  sufficient  meal.  Cigars,  a  scru¬ 
tiny  of  my  despairing  sketches,  and  a  long  look  at  the 
lovely  melancholy  of  the  river  and  mountains  before  we 
closed  the  shojis  for  the  night. 


264 


FROM  KAMBARA  TO  MIYANOSHITA  —  A 
LETTER  FROM  A  KAGO 


September  28. 

I  AM  writing  in  a  kago }  You  do  not  know  what  an 
achievement  this  is,  but  I  shall  explain  later  on  what 
a  kago  is,  why  I  am  in  it,  and  why  it  is  not  exactly  the 
place  to  expect  a  letter  from.  To  begin  at  the  beginning, 
we  were  yesterday  afternoon  at  Kambara,  on  the  gulf  of 
Suruga  Bay.  We  had  eaten  there  in  an  inn  by  the  water, 
while  I  watched  through  the  screens  the  waving  of  a  palm 
tree  in  the  wind,  which  was  now  blowing  autumnally  and 
had  cleared  the  sky  and  enlivened  us  with  a  hope  of  con¬ 
tinuous  view  of  Fuji.  Along  the  beach,  as  we  rode  away, 
the  breakers  ran  far  up  the  sand,  and  the  water  was  green 
as  emerald  from  the  brown,  wet  shore  to  the  distant  blue 
haze  of  the  ocean  in  the  south.  At  the  end  of  the  great 
curve  of  the  gulf  stretched  the  lines  of  green  and  purple 
mountains,  which  run  far  off  into  Idzu,  and  above  them 
stood  Fuji  in  the  sky,  very  pale  and  clear,  with  one  enor¬ 
mous  band  of  cloud  half-way  up  its  long  slope,  and  melt¬ 
ing  into  infinite  distance  toward  the  ocean.  Its  nearest 
point  hung  half  across  the  mountain’s  base,  more  solid 
than  the  mountain  itself,  and  cast  a  long  shadow  upon  it 
for  miles  of  distance.  Above,  the  eye  could  but  just  de¬ 
tect  a  faint  haze  in  the  delicate  blue  of  the  sky.  Best  of 
all  weather,  we  thought;  a  breeder  of  bad  weather,  accord¬ 
ing  to  our  men,  who,  alas!  knew  more  of  it  than  we  did. 
For  a  mile  now,  perhaps,  we  ran  along  between  the  sea 
and  the  abrupt  green  wall  of  hills,  so  steep  that  we  could 

1  You  may  pronounce  kang'go. 

265 


not  see  them,  and,  turning  sharply  around  a  corner,  be¬ 
held  Fuji,  now  filling  the  entire  field  of  sight,  seeming  to 
rise  even  from  below  us  into  the  upper  sky,  and  framed  at 
its  base  by  near  green  mountains  ;  these  opened  as  a  gate, 
and  showed  the  glittering  streak  of  the  swollen  Fujikawa, 
the  swiftest  river  in  Japan. 

The  lower  eastern  slope  was  cut  off  by  clouds,  but  its 
western  line,  ineffably  delicate  in  clearness,  stretched  to 
the  left  out  of  our  range  of  vision.  Below  its  violet  edge 
the  golden  slope  spread  in  the  sun,  of  the  color  of  an 
autumn  leaf.  Along  the  center  of  this  province  of  space 
the  shadow  of  the  great  cloud  rested.  The  marks  of  the 
spurs  of  the  mountain  were  as  faint  as  the  streaks  of  the 
wind  on  a  grain-field.  Its  cone  was  of  a  deep  violet  color, 
and  as  free  of  snow  as  though  this  had  been  the  day  of 
poetic  tradition  upon  which  the  snow  entirely  disappears 
to  fall  again  the  following  night.  No  words  can  recall 
adequately  the  simple  splendor  of  the  divine  mountain. 

As  A -  remarked,  it  was  worth  coming  to  far  Japan 

for  this  single  day. 

Right  into  this  marvelous  picture  we  rode,  through 
green  plantations  and  rice-fields,  which  edged  the  bases 
of  the  nearest  hills  and  lay  between  us  and  the  river. 
There  we  found  no  means  of  crossing.  All  bridges  had 
been  carried  away  by  the  flood.  The  plain  was  inundated; 
travelers  had  been  detained  for  a  week  by  a  sea  of  waters, 
and  were  scattered  there  and  in  neighboring  villages,  fill¬ 
ing  every  resting-place  ;  and,  worst  of  all,  the  police  of¬ 
ficials  would  not  allow  us  to  tempt  the  fishermen  to  make 
the  dangerous  crossing. 

The  occasion  was' a  solemn  one.  The  police  represen¬ 
tative,  upon  seeing  us  come  in  person  to  request  help, 
slipped  off  the  easy  Japanese  dress  which  he  was  wear¬ 
ing  in  these  days  of  forced  idleness,  and  reappeared  from 
behind  the  screen  clad  in  his  official  European  costume. 

266 


PEASANT  CARRYING  FODDER,  AND  DULL  CARRYING  LOAD. 


I  have  no  doubt  that  our  interpreter  explained  to  him  what 
important  persons  we  were,  and  what  important  letters 
we  bore  to  important  people  of  the  land,  for  he  kindly 
suggested  that  we  might  sail  past  the  mouth  of  the  river, 
from  near  Kambara,  whence  we  had  just  come,  so  as  to 
land  far  away  from  the  spread  of  all  this  devastation  ;  and 
he  offered  to  send  a  deputy  with  a  requisition  for  a  junk 
and  sufficient  sailors  from  the  nearest  fishing- village  on 
the  bay- — and  so  we  returned.  While  Hakodate  and  the 

messenger  went  on  to  make  all  arrangements,  A -  and 

myself  stopped  at  the  place  where  we  had  had  our  view 
of  Fuji,  to  make  a  more  careful  sketch.  You  can  have  no 
idea  of  how  much  closer  the  clearer  mind  worked  out  the 
true  outline  of  the  mountain,  which  my  excitement  had 
heightened  at  least  a  couple  of  thousand  feet ;  nor  should 
I  forget  how  my  two-legged  horse  of  a  runner  held  my 
paint-box  for  me,  and  seemed  to  know  exactly  when  and 
where  I  wished  to  dip  my  brush.  It  seemed  to  me  that  only 
a  few  moments  had  passed  when  the  messenger  returned  to 
say  that  the  boat  was  ready  to  launch,  and  that  we  must 
hurry  to  be  out  at  sea  before  sunset;  this  too  in  view  of 
the  storm,  which  we  might  escape  if  we  hurried.  The 
implied  threat  made  no  impression  on  me.  The  picture 
before  us  had  not  changed  any  more  than  if  painted  by 
man.  The  great  cloud  hung  fixed,  apparently,  in  the 
same  place.  All  was  still :  perhaps  in  the  uppermost 
sky  one  could  distinguish  some  outlines  of  white  in  the 
blue.  Still  we  hurried  off,  and  arrived  upon  a  scene  of 
confusion  and  wild  excitement.  A  captain  and  a  crew 
had  been  found;  their  boat  stood  high  up  on  the  crest 
of  the  surf,  now  beating  on  the  shore,  and  carried  the 
line  with  which  to  pull  out  the  small  junk,  still  far  up  on 
the  beach.  The  wheels  of  our  kurumas  had  been  taken 
off  and  their  bodies  had  been  placed  in  the  hold. 

As  we  got  on  board  at  least  a  hundred  naked  men 

269 


pushed  and  tugged  to  start  the  junk  upon  the  slope  of 
sand.  The  sun  was  setting  suddenly  behind  the  head¬ 
land  of  Shizuoka,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  the  moisture 
from  the  sea ;  a  rosy  bloom,  pink  as  the  clouds  them¬ 
selves,  filled  the  entire  air,  near  and  far,  toward  the  light. 
On  the  other  side  the  distance  was  fading  into  gray  and 
violet  mist.  The  great  mountain  was  still  a  great  clear 
mass,  but  colorless,  like  the  northern  sky  behind  it,  while, 
bathed  in  the  color  of  fairyland,  we  rose  and  fell  over  the 
breakers  —  the  spray,  the  waves,  the  boat,  the  bodies  of 
the  men,  glistening  and  suffused  with  pink. 

No  painter  ever  saw  a  more  ideal  light.  And  sud¬ 
denly  it  faded,  leaving  us  in  a  still  brilliant  twilight, 
through  which  we  looked  at  the  tossing  of  the  hazy  sea. 
The  mast  was  lifted  and  set,  the  great  square  sail  was 
hoisted,  and  the  captain  took  hold  of  the  ponderous  tiller. 
We  stretched  ourselves  on  the  poop  deck,  prepared  for  a 
dance  of  seventeen  miles ;  then  under  my  protecting 
blanket  I  fell  asleep  —  to  wake  and  see  before  me  a  sheet 
of  rain.  The  predicted  storm  had  flooded  us ;  we  lay  in 
the  water  that  covered  the  deck,  our  waterproofs  insuffi¬ 
cient,  and  glad  to  be  able  to  find  some  protection  under  the 
Japanese  rain-coats  of  straw,  whose  merits  I  had  not  yet 
understood. 

From  under  my  shelter  I  could  see  that  our  mast  was 
lowered,  and  that  the  captain  and  the  sailors  forward  were 
working  at  the  heavy  sweeps.  Below,  under  hatches,  I 
could  hear  the  groaning  of  our  seasick  runners.  Between 
the  gusts  of  rain  came  the  voice  of  the  captain,  now  in  the 
straining  agony  of  seasickness,  next  keeping  up  a  steady, 
chanted  talk  with  a  mate  forward.  A  lantern  was  lashed 
to  the  post  of  the  tiller,  and  the  captain’s  bare  feet  rose 
and  fell  with  his  steps  at  the  great  oar,  showing  sharply 
the  action  of  tendons  and  muscles.  I  tried  to  sketch  un¬ 
der  my  cover,  then  dozed, —  sleepy  with  the  rocking  and 


the  cold  and  the  wet,— and  with  every  waking  hearing 
the  whistling  of  the  wind  and  the  continuous  monotonous 
voice  in  a  language  not  understood.  So  passed  the  night. 

We  saw  the  morning  break  on  a  lonely,  high,  gray 
bank,  streaked  by  the  sea  lines  of  different  tides,  and 
crowned  with  a  line  of  pines  of  all  sizes  and  shapes,  stretch¬ 
ing  for  miles  dark  green  against  the  white  clouds  which 
covered  the  base  of  the  mountains  behind.  Out  of  these 
white  banks  stood  dull  blue  peaks,  while  the  highest 
mountains  were  lost  in  cloud,  and  all  was  gray  and  deso¬ 
late  with  the  rain.  The  surf  broke  on  the  sand  not  more 
than  a  hundred  yards  from  us.  We  lay  there  some  time, 
waiting  for  more  light,  for  all  wind  had  ceased ;  then  four 
men  swam  ashore  with  a  rope,  and  towed  us  along  the 
bank.  The  surf  had  abated,  but  landing  was  too  difficult, 
and  we  were  to  be  dragged,  while  our  other  men  worked 
at  the  big  sculls  and  pushed  us  along.  We  wore  along 
four  miles  to  a  little  bar,  over  which  we  were  pulled  by 
the  men  now  in  the  water  into  a  singular  little  harbor 
with  an  entrance  not  more  than  a  hundred  feet  wide. 
On  this  the  surf  broke  gently  — white  on  the  gray  sea. 
To  our  left  the  backs  of  two  sand-spits  dotted  the  water, 
and  on  the  right,  looking  out  to  sea,  rose  the  edge  of  a 
grove  of  pines,  with  four  or  five  houses,  heavy  roofed  and 
thatched,  against  its  green  darkness. 

On  the  curve  of  the  beach  before  it  stood  a  high  pointed 
rock  almost  touched  by  the  water,  edged  around  and 
covered  with  pines  — all  but  the  perpendicular  side  facing 
the  harbor.  On  its  summit  stood  a  little  red  temple,  whose 
back  we  saw.  On  the  other  side,  landwards,  as  we  left 
our  boat  and  followed  our  guides  ashore  around  its 
base,  a  hundred  steps  ran  straight  up  to  the  front  of  the 
little  shrine — so  steep  and  sudden  that  we  could  just 
look  along  their  edge.  From  the  high  rock,  recessed,  ran 
back  the  shore,  on  which  stood  in  a  row  three  large  junks 


271 


with  their  sterns  to  the  sea  —  behind  them  trees  and 
houses.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  little  harbor  four  of 
our  men,  up  to  their  middle  or  up  to  their  armpits  in 
water,  slowly  dragged  our  junk  nearer  to  the  shore.  All 
was  quiet  and  gray  —  the  men  reflected  in  the  moving 
water,  the  boat  creaking  along  slowly.  As  I  went  up 
the  beach,  following  our  guide  and  the  boatmen,  I  thought 
how  like  this  was  to  the  Homeric  haven  —  the  grove  look¬ 
ing  out  to  sea  and  frequented  by  “  fowls  maritimal  ”  ;  the 
sacred  rock;  the  meadows  and  the  little  stream;  the  long 
galleys  drawn  up  on  the  beach.  The  little  houses  of  the 
fishing-village  were  surrounded  by  gardens,  and  their 
walls  largely  made  of  plaited  bamboo.  There  was  no 
inn,  but  we  found  a  house  half  shop,  and  were  welcomed 
to  some  tea  and  to  a  room  which  the  family  hastened  to 
abandon  for  us.  There  were  only  two  rooms  besides  the 
entrance,  which  was  a  large  passage  floored  with  earth, 
and  along  one  side  of  it  a  raised  surface,  from  which 
began  the  level  of  our  flooring. 

Sliding  partitions,  hurriedly  run  up,  made  us  a  room, 
but  the  outside  screens  were  full  of  holes,  through  which, 
in  a  few  minutes,  peered  all  the  women  and  children 
of  the  village,  who  occasionally  even  pushed  aside  the 
screens  to  see  more  completely.  The  little  passage  in 
front  of  our  open  room  was  filled  with  girls  and  children 
intent  upon  our  ways  of  smoking,  of  taking  tea,  and  of 
eating  —  for  we  had  biscuits  with  us,  and  fifteen  hours 
at  least  without  food  had  made  us  fairly  hungry.  Mean¬ 
while  the  men  landed  their  wagons  and  the  trunks,  and 
took  their  meal  of  rice,  hastily  made  up,  on  the  ledge 
of  the  platform  on  which  we  sat.  This  they  did  in  a  row, 
the  whole  twenty  eating  quietly  but  rapidly, —  I  was  go¬ 
ing  to  say  firmly, —  shoving  into  their  mouths  the  rice 
from  the  bowls,  and  tearing  with  their  fingers  the  fish  just 
cooked.  Meanwhile,  among  all  the  ugliness  around  us 


272 


in  women,  shone  out,  with  beautiful  complexions,— lost 
in  the  others  by  exposure  to  wind  and  sun,  by  hard  work, 
and  probably  by  child-bearing,—  three  girls,  who  stood 
before  us  a  long  time,  with  sweet  faces  and  bright  eyes 
and  teeth.  They  stared  hard  at  us  until  stared  at  in  re¬ 
turn,  when  they  dispersed,  to  watch  us  again  like  children 
from  the  doors  and  from  the  kitchen. 

Our  hostess,  small,  fat,  good-natured,  and  polite,  show¬ 
ing  black-lacquered  teeth  between  rosy  lips,  like  ripe 
seeds  in  a  watermelon,  bustled  about  hurrying  everything, 
and  at  the  end  of  our  meal  our  host  appeared  —  from 
the  kitchen  apparently  — and  knelt  before  us.  Poor  and 
ragged  as  the  house  was,  with  ceilings  black  with  age  and 
smoke,  and  screens  torn  and  worn  by  rubbing,  the  little 
tokonoma  held  a  fairly  good  picture,  and  a  pretty  vase 
with  flowers  below  it.  But  it  was  evidently  one  of  the 
poorest  of  places,  and  had  never  seen  a  foreigner  in  it. 
This  may  have  been  the  cause  of  the  appearance  of  the 
ubiquitous  Japanese  policeman  within  five  minutes  of  our 
arrival.  He  alone  betrayed  no  curiosity,  and  disappeared 
with  dignity  on  getting  our  credentials. 

The  rain  still  held  off.  We  entered  our  kurumas,  now 
ready,  and  hastened  to  the  main  road  which  we  were  to 
find  at  Numadsu,  if  that  be  the  name  of  the  place.  But, 
alas!  the  rain  came  down,  and  my  views  were  confined 
within  the  outline  of  an  umbrella.  My  only  adventure 
was  stopping  at  some  hovel  on  the  road  to  buy  some  more 
of  that  heavy  yellow  oiled  paper  which  replaces  the 
leather  apron  that  we  usually  find  attached  to  our  Euro¬ 
pean  carriages.  By  and  by  I  consented  to  have  the  hood 
of  my  wagon  put  up,  through  which  I  could  see  little 
more  than  the  thatched  backs  of  my  runners,  their  bowls 
of  hats,  off  which  the  rain  spattered  upon  their  straw 
cloaks  and  aprons,  and  their  wet  brown  legs,  lifted  with 
the  regularity  of  automatons.  It  was  getting  cold,  too, 
18  273 


and  women  under  their  umbrellas  wore  the  graceful  short 
overcoat  they  call  haori ,  and  tottered  over  the  wet  ground 
on  high  wooden  pattens. 

This  I  noticed  as  we  came  into  Mishima,  from  which 
place  we  were  to  begin  our  ascent  up  the  Hakone  Pass. 
On  our  way,  were  it  to  clear,  we  might  see  Fuji  again  — 
at  any  rate,  if  it  cleared  in  the  least  we  would  enjoy 
the  mountains.  Meanwhile  we  shivered  at  lunch,  trying  to 
get  into  corners  where  the  wind  would  not  leak  through 
the  cracks  of  the  shojis,  and  beginning  to  experience  the 
discomforts  of  Japanese  inns.  And  now  my  bashfulness 
having  gradually  abandoned  me,  I  could  take  my  hot 
bath,  separated  from  the  household  by  a  screen  not  over 
high,  over  which  the  fat  servant-girls  kindly  handed  me 
my  towels.  Excuse  these  trivial  details,  but  I  cannot 
otherwise  give  you  the  “  local  color,”  and  my  journal  is 
one  of  small  things.  Had  I  come  here  in  the  old  days 
when  I  first  fell  in  love  with  Japan,  I  might  have  met 
with  some  thrilling  experience  in  an  inn. 

I  might  have  had  such  an  experience  as  our  poor  friend 
Fauvel  met  with  not  far  from  here.  I  might  have  met 
some  young  sworded  men,  anxious  to  maintain  their  dig¬ 
nity  and  ripe  for  a  quarrel  with  the  foreigner.  Do  you 
remember  that  he  jostled  the  sword  of  some  youngster 
—  “the  sword,  the  soul  of  the  Samurai” — which  its  owner 
had  left  upon  the  floor.  The  insult  would  have  been  im¬ 
possible  to  explain  away  had  not  some  sensible  Japanese 
official  decided  that  a  man  who  was  so  careless  with  his 
sword  as  to  leave  it  on  the  mat,  instead  of  on  the  reput¬ 
able  sword-rack,  had  no  right  to  complain  of  another’s 
inadvertence. 

I  sometimes  wonder  which  of  the  courteous  persons  I 
meet,  when  age  allows  the  supposition,  obeyed  these  rules 
when  they  were  younger ;  which  ones  now  dressed  in 
black  broadcloth  wore  the  great  helmet  with  branching 

274 


A  RUNNER  IN  THE  RAIN. 


horns,  or  strapped  the  two  great  swords  at  their  waist. 
And  I  am  lost  in  respect  and  bewilderment  to  think  that  all 
this  wondrous  change  —  as  great  as  any  that  the  world 
can  have  seen — was  effected  with  such  success  and  ac¬ 
cepted  in  such  a  lofty  spirit. 

We  were  now  to  give  up  the  kuruma  and  to  travel  by  the 
kago,  which,  you  will  remember,  I  promised  to  describe. 
The  kago  is  a  curious  institution,  partly  superseded  by 
the  kuruma,  but  lingering  in  many  places,  and  necessary 
where  the  pack-horse  would  be  unsafe,  and  where  one 
would  otherwise  have  to  walk.  It  consists  of  a  small  lit¬ 
ter  hung  by  stiff  bamboos  from  a  great  pole,  over  which  is 
steadied  a  little  matted  roof,  from  which  various  protec¬ 
tions  from  rain  or  sun  can  be  dropped.  The  kago  has  its 
discomforts :  one  lies  down  in  it  all  doubled  up,  with  legs 
crossed  as  far  as  they  can  be  made  to,  because  the  basket, 
which  is  the  body  of  the  litter,  is  only  about  three  feet 
long;  and  with  head  to  one  side,  because,  if  one  lifted  it, 
it  might  strike  the  ridge-pole.  The  proper  way  is  to  lie 
not  quite  in  the  axis.  This  is  all  the  more  natural,  as 
the  men  at  either  end  do  not  carry  it  in  a  straight  line, 
but  at  an  angle,  so  that  from  one  side  you  can  see  a  little 
in  front  of  you. 

Into  the  kagos  we  were  folded,  and  in  a  torrent  of  rain 
we  departed.  I  resisted  my  being  shut  up  in  my  litter  by 
the  oiled-paper  sides  that  are  used  in  the  rain,  and  I  de¬ 
pended  upon  mackintosh  and  blanket  to  protect  me.  The 
rain  came  down  in  sheets.  We  trotted  uphill,  the  men 
going  on  for  a  few  minutes,  then  changing  shoulders,  and 
then  again  another  pair  taking  their  turn  —  four  to  each 
litter.  Meanwhile  they  sang,  as  they  trotted,  something 
which  sounded  like  “  Hey,  hey,  hey,  het  tue  hey.”  The 
road  was  almost  all  paved,  and  in  the  steeper  ascents  was 
very  bad. 

And  now  I  began  to  experience  some  novel  sensations 


not  easy  to  describe.  My  feet  were  turned  in  upon  the 
calves  of  the  legs  like  an  Indian  Buddha’s,  and  I  soon 
began  to  ache  along  sciatic  lines ;  then  elsewhere,  then 
everywhere.  Then  I  determined  to  break  with  this  ar¬ 
rangement,  as  anger  seized  me ;  fortunately  a  sort  of 
paralysis  set  in,  and  I  became  torpid  and  gradually  re¬ 
signed  ;  and  gradually  also  I  fell  asleep  with  the  curious 
motion  and  the  chant  of  the  men,  and  woke  accustomed, 
and  so  I  am  writing. 

I  can  just  remember  large  trees  and  roads  protected  by 
them ;  some  places  where  we  seemed  alone  in  the  world, 
where  we  left  trees  and  stood  in  some  narrow  path,  just 
able  to  see  above  its  sides  —  all  else  shut  out  of  existence 
by  the  rain  ;  and  I  have  all  along  enjoyed  the  novel  sen¬ 
sation  of  moving  on  the  level  of  the  plants  and  shrubs. 

We  are  now  going  downhill  again,  and  can  look  down 
an  avenue  of  great  trees  and  many  steps  which  we  de¬ 
scend.  We  are  coming  to  Hakone  ;  I  can  see  the  lake 
beyond  a  Torii,  and  at  the  first  corner  of  the  road  under 
the  trees  begins  the  village. 

Miyanoshita,  September  28. 

Again  the  kago,  and  the  rain  as  soon  as  we  departed. 
I  turned  as  well  as  I  could,  to  find  the  lovely  lines,  now 
lost  in  general  shapes  and  values,  blurred  into  masses. 
Once  the  light  opened  on  the  top  of  some  high  hill, 
and  I  could  see,  with  wild  roses  right  against  me,  some 
flat  milestone  marked  with  an  image  against  the  edges 
of  distant  mountains,  and  a  sky  of  faint  twilight  pink ;  or 
again  we  pattered  along  in  wet  grass,  past  a  great  rock 
with  a  great  bas-relief  image  — a  Jizo  (patron  of  travel¬ 
ers)  sitting  in  the  loneliness  with  a  few  flowers  before  him. 
Then  in  the  rain,  and  mingling  with  the  mist,  thicker 
cloudings  marked  the  steam  from  hot  springs,  which  make 
these  parts  of  the  mountains  a  resort  for  invalids  and 
bathers. 


278 


Soon  the  darkness :  then  pine  knots  were  lighted  and 
we  descended  among  the  trees,  in  a  path  like  a  torrent, 
the  water  running  along  between  the  stones,  which  the  feet 
of  the  bearers  seemed  to  find  instinctively.  The  arms  of 
the  torch-bearers  were  modeled  in  wild  lights  and  shad¬ 
ows  ;  the  hats  of  the  men  made  a  dusky  halo  around  their 
heads  ;  the  rain-coats  of  straw  glistened  with  wet ;  occa¬ 
sionally  some  branch  came  out,  distinct  in  every  leaf,  be¬ 
tween  the  smoke  and  the  big  sparks  and  embers.  The 
noise  of  torrents  near  by  rose  above  the  rain  and  the 
patter  and  the  song  of  the  men.  The  steepness  of  the 
path  seemed  only  to  increase  the  rapidity  of  our  runners, 
who  bounded  along  from  stone  to  stone.  After  a  time 
anxiety  was  lost  in  the  excitement  of  the  thing  and  in 
our  success,  but  quite  late  in  our  course  I  heard  behind 

me  a  commotion  —  one  of  A - ’s  runners  had  slipped 

and  the  kago  had  come  down;  no  one  hurt — the  kago 
keeps  its  occupant  packed  too  tightly.  Then  the  path  left 
the  wild  descent;  we  trotted  through  regular,  muddy  roads, 
stopped  once  on  disbanding  our  torch-bearers,  and  reached 
the  Europeanized  hotel  at  Miyanoshita,  where  I  intend  to 
sleep  to-night  on  a  European  bed,  with  a  bureau  and  a 
looking-glass  in  my  room.  One  little  touch  not  quite 
like  ours,  as  a  gentle  lady  of  uncertain  age  offers  me  her 
services  for  the  relief  of  fatigue  by  massage,  before  I  de¬ 
scend  to  drink  Bass’s  ale  in  the  dining-room,  alongside  of 
Britons  from  the  neighboring  Yokohama,  only  one  day’s 
journey  farther. 


279 


POSTSCRIPT 


[This  much  of  my  letters,  or  all  but  a  few  pages,  has 
been  published  at  intervals  in  “The  Century  Magazine.” 
I  had  hoped  for  time  to  add  some  further  notes  on  Jap¬ 
anese  art,  and  some  fragments  of  my  journal,  but  neither 
time  nor  health  allows  me  more.  I  should  have  preferred 
also  to  replace  some  of  the  drawings  and  photographs 
here  engraved  by  some  pages  from  note-books  nearer  to 
the  feeling  of  the  text  —  something  more  serious  and  less 
finished  than  suits  a  magazine. 

With  some  regret  I  let  these  matters  stand  ;  with  less 
regret  because  my  notes  are  merely  impressions  of  a 
given  date.  Since  then  Loti  has  written,  and  Mr.  Laf- 
cadio  Hearn  has  written  and  writes  with  his  usual  charm. 
Mr.  Lowell  has  opened  singular  pages,  Mr.  Chamberlain’s 
authority  has  been  given  to  popular  information;  Mrs. 
Coates  has  written  in  laughter;  Miss  Scidmore  has  adorned 
the  guide-book,  Mr.  Parsons,  Mr.  East  .  .  .  the  list  is  too 
long. 

I  must  thank  Mr.  H.  Shugio  for  the  “grass  characters” 
of  his  elegant  translation  of  my  preface ;  and  Mr.  M. 
Tsuchiya  for  much  information.] 


280 


APPENDIX 


I  give  as  an  appendix  the  “  Suruga  Gobunsho,”  the 
letter  of  Iyeyasu  to  his  daughter-in-law,  in  which  he 
defines  the  position  of  Iyemitsu’s  brother.  I  have  it  at 
two  removes  from  the  original,  so  that,  as  a  Japanese 
acquaintance  remarks,  “Recollecting  the  shadow  of  the 
original  hanging  in  a  corner  of  my  memory,  I  hardly 
recognize  the  energetic  style  of  the  ‘old  badger’  —  Furu 
Danuki  —  as  Iyeyasu  was  called  by  his  antagonists.” 
Notwithstanding,  I  give  it  with  all  these  defects,  there 
being  nothing  fixed  in  history  but  documents ;  and  this 
document  gives  us  the  real  mind  of  a  great  man,  his 
make-believe  appearance,  his  intimate  resemblance  to 
other  great  managers,  and  a  statement  of  the  correct 
ideas  of  his  time,  to  which  he  gave  a  fixed  form. 


LETTER  OF  IYEYASU 

It  is  getting  warmer  daily,  and  life  is  again  quite  pleas¬ 
ant.  How  is  it  with  you  and  your  children  ?  When 
last  I  had  the  pleasure  of  visiting  you  I  was  charmed  by 
the  friendly  reception  which  was  given  to  me,  and  I  beg 
that  you  will  present  my  thanks  therefor  to  your  lord.  It 
pleases  me  much  to  hear  that  both  my  grandchildren  — 
Take  1  and  Kuni 2 — have  grown.  When  I  was  with  you  I 
advised  you  to  select  a  tutor  for  Take.  Have  you  already 
done  this  ?  Kuni  is  really  very  clever  ;  which  is  a  thing 

1  The  child-name  of  Iyemitsu. 

2  The  child-name  of  the  brother  of  Iyemitsu. 

281 


to  rejoice  in,  and  you  ought  to  hold  him  especially  dear. 
I  have  had  some  experience,  and  therefore  proceed  to 
communicate  to  you  my  views  as  to  how  you  can  bring 
him  up  to  be  a  good  man. 

If  a  child,  however  clever  and  gifted,  be  allowed  to 
grow  up  entirely  free  and  without  discipline,  it  will  be¬ 
come  in  riper  age  wilful  and  positive.  Children  are 
usually  disobedient  to  their  parents.  If  they  are  made 
to  obey  their  parents  they  will  yet  still  less  accommodate 
themselves  to  their  surrounding.  But  will  they  be  able 
as  men  to  rule  over  States  ?  Not  in  the  least,  since 
they  have  not  been  able  even  to  rule  themselves.  Con¬ 
sidering  how  naive  is  youth,  a  severe  education  does  not 
seem  at  first  sight  to  be  fitting,  but  herein  man  resembles 
a  plant.  Of  a  tree,  for  instance,  only  a  little  sprig  first 
shows  ;  with  careful  attendance  little  by  little  the  branches 
and  leaves  are  developed ;  then  a  prop  is  given  to  the 
same  that  it  may  grow  straight,  and  the  poor  growths 
are  cut  off.  If  each  year  one  goes  on  carefully  with  this 
treatment  one  may  obtain  straight,  beautiful  trees.  With 
man  it  is  just  the  same.  As  the  child  comes  to  be  four 
or  five  years  a  prop  is  given  him  in  the  person  of  a 
good  tutor  who  shall  remove  the  bad  growths,  shall 
subdue  wilfulness,  and  make  a  fine  man  out  of  him. 
Often  this  foresight  of  care  is  neglected,  allowing  the 
child  to  grow  up  in  freedom  without  protecting  him 
against  his  own  self-will.  Only  when  the  child  can 
already  think  for  itself  do  the  elders  begin  their  admoni¬ 
tions,  but  then  it  is  quite  too  late:  the  branches  of  wil¬ 
fulness  are  already  too  far  grown,  and  the  stem  can  no 
longer  bring  forth  new  branches.  A  good  tree  is  no 
longer  to  be  aimed  at. 

In  this  connection  I  have  a  lively  recollection  of 
Saburo.1  When  he  was  born  I  was  still  a  young  man, 

1  Saburo  was  the  eldest  son  of  Iyeyasu. 

282 


and  I  was  enchanted  by  the  first  child.  He  was  some¬ 
what  weakly,  and  on  that  account  I  thought  that  he 
should  be  especially  protected  and  given  the  greatest 
liberty.  I  was  not  severe  with  him  and  allowed  him  all 
that  he  wished.  After  he  had  grown  up  I  often  found 
occasion  to  blame  this  and  that  in  him,  and  to  give  him 
admonition  and  advice,  but  I  had  no  success  therein, 
because  in  his  youth  no  one  had  taken  trouble  about  his 
conduct  and  speech.  He  had  never  learned  to  treat  his 
parents  with  thoughtfulness,  and  to  respect  them  as  filial 
duty  ordered,  but  behaved  toward  them  as  if  they  were 
his  equals,  so  that  finally  it  had  to  come  to  a  quarrel,  and 
the  results  are  that  he  hates  them  now,  and  is  quite  es¬ 
tranged  from  them.  Warned  by  these  evil  experiences, 
I  undertook  other  rules  for  the  education  of  other  chil¬ 
dren.  For  instance,  I  chose  persons  to  attend  the  child 
who  themselves  had  been  brought  up  from  youth  with 
the  greatest  severity,  and  I  ordered  them  to  let  me  know 
at  once  when  the  slightest  trace  of  wilfulness  or  other 
similar  defect  was  discovered.  And  I  called  the  child  to 
me,  gave  him  a  rebuke,  and  extended  to  him  some  few 
strong  words  of  advice.  Through  following  this  educa¬ 
tion  the  child  grew  to  be  as  faultless  as  a  straight  grown 
tree  ;  knew  no  self-will,  because  he  considered  the  will  of 
his  parents  as  the  highest  law.  He  practised  self-control 
and  learned  continually  how  one  should  best  honor  one’s 
parents. 

In  the  families  of  princes  a  child  holds  another  stand¬ 
ing,  and  is  subjected  to  other  influences  than  in  the 
families  of  subjects.  In  provision  of  this  and  of  the 
future  position  of  the  child,  his  education  must  be  dif¬ 
ferent  in  certain  points.  The  parents  should  always 
oblige  the  child  to  follow  the  admonitions  of  those  placed 
about  him,  otherwise  after  their  death  the  child  would 
succumb  entirely  to  its  own  wilfulness,  and  at  the  end 


forfeit  the  throne,  as  many  examples  have  taught  us 
before  this.  Therefore,  it  is  the  duty  of  the  educator  to 
implant  in  his  scholar  from  the  earliest  youth  and  before 
everything  veneration  for  his  parents,  the  yielding  of  the 
will  to  Providence,  gentleness  toward  subjects,  and  high¬ 
mindedness  ;  only  so  can  he  bring  him  up  to  be  a  real 
man. 

A  separation  between  the  lord  and  the  subjects  is  cer¬ 
tainly  necessary  for  the  upholding  of  social  order,  and 
is  commanded  by  the  circumstances,  but  the  lord  must 
also  consider  that  he  is  the  subject  of  his  subjects.  My 
tutor,  Abe  Okura,  repeated  over  and  over  again  the  fol¬ 
lowing  precept  to  me  in  my  youth,  and  I  find  it  very 
well  founded :  If  in  ordinary  circumstances  the  subjects 
yield  to  their  master,  even  when  he  is  unjust,  and  follow 
his  service  even  when  he  acts  as  a  tyrant,  yet  in  extraor¬ 
dinary  emergencies  all  this  may  change  very  easily. 
Therefore,  the  ruler  should  behave  compassionately  to¬ 
ward  his  subjects  and  distribute  impartial  reward  and 
punishment  strictly  and  with  justice ;  he  should  see  in 
these  subjects  the  foundation  of  his  government,  for  with¬ 
out  a  Servant  there  can  be  no  Master.  In  order  that 
they  may  have  these  truths  before  their  eyes  in  riper 
age,  children  should  be  trained  in  time  to  value  the  opin¬ 
ions  of  those  about  them,  and  to  be  guided  by  them,  be¬ 
cause  out  of  the  words  and  deeds  of  those  who  are  nearest 
to  us  we  can  best  judge  the  worth  of  our  own  deeds.  A 
wilful  man  is  never  contented,  for  if  he  yields  only  to  his 
own  will  he  forgets  the  duty  of  reverence  for  his  parents, 
and  earns  in  consequence  both  from  them,  his  relations, 
his  friends,  and  even  from  his  servants,  only  displeasure 
and  depreciation,  and  finally  he  is  unable  to  reach  what 
he  had  proposed.  As  he  notices  these  failures,  he  comes 
to  hate  the  disposition  of  Providence,  his  fellow-men,  and 
finally  himself,  and  from  discontent  will  become  unsound 

2S4 


in  mind.  Therefore,  we  should  always  remind  youth 
that  it  is  given  to  no  man  to  find  in  this  world  all  his 
wish  and  will. 

In  a  princely  family  the  second  son  should  also  be 
made  to  notice  that  he  stands  in  relation  to  the  elder  as 
a  subject.  If  the  second  son  holds  more  power  than  the 
eldest,  dissensions  in  the  family  are  inevitable.  In  the 
education  of  the  younger  people  one  must  attend  to  this, 
that  they  acquire  polite  and  dignified  demeanor,  and,  be¬ 
fore  everything,  avoid  rash  and  rude  words  ;  yet  not  so 
exaggerated  importance  should  be  attached  to  a  dignified 
carriage  that  a  disregard  of  inferiors  should  arise ;  other¬ 
wise  an  understanding  of  the  real  position  is  lost,  and  a 
compassionate  feeling  for  the  ills  of  dependents  cannot 
exist.  As  often  as  an  opportunity  may  occur  one  should 
explain  to  the  children  of  sovereigns  the  use  of  certain 
things,  out  of  what  country  they  come,  that  they  are  of 
this  or  that  province,  what  prince  rules  there,  what  for¬ 
tunes  the  ruling  house  has  passed  through,  and  so  forth. 
Also,  with  their  own  subjects  one  should  try  to  make 
them  acquainted  in  a  similar  way,  naming,  for  example,  a 
prominent  man  as  descended  from  a  famous  general,  re¬ 
lating  that  his  family  has  been  for  centuries  in  the  land, 
and  on  account  of  its  great  services  has  good  fame.  And 
such  like  things.  In  this  way  the  youth  will  learn  to 
estimate  his  subjects  and,  when  a  man,  to  take  the  cor¬ 
rect  position  toward  them.  Besides,  every  prince  should 
be  carefully  trained  in  youth  to  all  knightly  arts,  such  as 
riding,  drawing  the  bow,  and  fencing. 

Of  course  the  descendant  of  a  princely  house  needs  not 
to  go  deeply  into  the  studies  of  a  scientific  education.  It 
is  sufficient  that  he  be  made  acquainted  by  professional 
men  with  the  main  features  of  the  particular  branches  of 
science.  But  it  is  important  and  necessary  that  he  be 
informed  of  the  deeds  of  great  generals  and  faithful  sub- 

285 


jects,  and  conversely  of  the  fate  of  faithless  officers  who 
misled  their  superiors,  brought  mischief  to  their  country, 
and  finally  ruined  houses  which  had  reigned  for  centuries. 
From  such  examples,  detestable  or  worthy  of  imitation, 
he  can  draw  the  best  lessons  for  his  own  acts.  One 
ought  not  to  judge  one’s  own  doing  or  not  doing  after 
one's  own  view  of  right  and  wrong,  but  ought  to  look  at 
it  in  the  mirror  of  the  people’s  opinion.  But  you  cannot 
keep  this  mirror  like  one  made  of  metal,  brilliant  by 
polishing  its  outside ;  you  can  only  keep  it  clean  and 
bright  through  the  purity  of  your  own  heart.  Evil  con¬ 
duct  makes  the  mirror  lose  its  power  of  reflection.  It 
remains  then  clear  only  when  we  listen  to  the  judgment 
of  our  fellow-men  upon  our  acts.  If  a  ruler  is  pleased 
that  one  should  make  him  mindful  of  his  own  faults,  if 
he  strives  to  put  them  aside  and  recompense  those  who 
have  done  him  this  service,  then  that  mirror  will  always 
shine  in  brightest  splendor,  and  the  ruler  will  recognize 
in  it  his  own  image  truly  rendered;  and,  besides,  he  will 
also  see  which  of  his  subjects  think  ill  and  which  well  of 
him,  and  what  opinion  of  him  the  people  have  in  general. 
If  he  wishes  to  hear  only  his  praise  from  every  mouth, 
his  hypocritical  surrounding  will  try  to  please  him  with 
suitable  flattery,  while  his  really  loyal  subjects  will  draw 
near  to  him  only  if  he  be  willing  to  see  his  faults  dis¬ 
covered  and  to  receive  admonition  willingly.  A  ruler 
should  always  consider  this,  and  never  be  contented  with 
a  surrounding  perhaps  clever,  but  over-flexible  and  com¬ 
plying,  and  wanting  in  deliberation  and  sincerity.  If  he 
mistake,  then  doors  and  towers  are  open  to  his  hypocrit¬ 
ical  inferiors,  loyal  outwardly  but  traitorous  in  heart. 

Ji  Hiobu  talked  little  and  listened  continually  when¬ 
ever  we  were  considering  a  matter,  on  which  account  he 
made  a  mediocre  impression  on  outsiders.  But  as  soon 
as  he  had  acquired  a  clear  view  of  the  matter,  he  handled 

286 


it  with  a  free  mind.  Quite  especially  was  I  pleased  with 
him  that  face  to  face,  and  privately,  he  drew  my  attention 
to  a  possible  mistake  contemplated ;  therefore  I  preferred 
mostly  to  consider  everything  alone  with  him  first,  and 
then  only  to  discuss  the  matter  publicly. 

Tastes  and  talent  are  so  separate  that  in  some  peo¬ 
ple  they  seem  to  be  in  opposition.  One  man  has  the 
greatest  liking  for  something  which  the  other  detests,  and 
this  one  acquires  with  ease  by  virtue  of  his  gifts  what  the 
other,  notwithstanding  diligence  and  energy,  cannot 
achieve.  In  the  judgment  of  the  worth  of  a  man  and  of 
his  faculties  one  ought  not  to  proceed  rashly  and  one- 
sidedly,  as  an  example  from  the  vegetable  world  teaches 
us  ;  each  flower  develops  its  full  splendor  in  the  season 
of  its  bloom,  and  each  one  possesses  some  particular 
beauty  for  which  we  treasure  it.  But  there  is  a  plant 
called  the  Dokudami 1  whose  ugly  exterior  and  evil  smell 
make  us  avoid  it  and  consider  it  useless ;  and  yet  it  ful¬ 
fils  a  very  beneficent  end.  For  instance,  if  you  boil  it 
quite  long  it  becomes  a  remarkable  remedy  for  lepers. 
So  it  is  with  men.  Many  a  man  is  misunderstood  and 
neglected,  and  yet  each  is  gifted  with  certain  faculties 
and  can  become  an  able  and  useful  member  of  society  if 
one  understand  how  to  employ  him  rightly  ;  to  every  one 
shall  come  a  time  wherein  he  fulfils  his  destiny.  We 
usually  hold  as  useless  and  tiresome  things  that  others 
study  with  zeal,  but  which  we  do  not  like.  Yet  that  is 
not  reasonable,  especially  with  a  ruler.  Until  my  maturer 
age  I  could  not  understand  the  game  of  Go,2  and  could 
not  see  how  a  man  could  busy  himself  with  such  a  use¬ 
less  thing,  which  gave  trouble  but  no  pleasure  ;  therefore 
I  thought  all  people  stupid  who  gave  themselves  up  to 
it.  To-day,  since  I  have  thoroughly  understood  the 

1  Honthuynia  cordata. 

2  May  be  described  as  a  form  of  the  game  of  checkers. 

287 


game,  I  find  it  very  amusing,  especially  in  rainy  weather 
when  I  am  not  allowed  to  go  out,  and  I  play  now  eagerly 
with  those  whom  I  once  derided.  Through  this  I  have 
come  to  guess  that  what  has  not  been  handed  down  from 
old  times  is  somewhat  useless.  It  is  a  great  mistake  to 
think  that  all  that  pleases  us  is  good  and  what  displeases 
us  is  bad,  and  that  one’s  own  taste  is  the  only  right  one. 

It  often  happens  that  a  child  in  its  anger  at  hearing 
something  unpleasant  destroys  the  nearest  available  thing ; 
parents  should  not  think  that  this  is  a  consequence  of 
worms,  and  therefore  let  it  go  unpunished ;  such  indul¬ 
gence  works  like  poison  on  the  character  of  the  child.  If 
really  a  disease  be  the  cause  of  such  excitement  one 
ought  to  use  right  away  the  suitable  medicine.  He  who 
in  his  youth  has  acquired  such  habits  yields  to  them  later 
when  something  displeases  him  ;  then  it  will  be  seen  what 
bad  results  unsubdued  wilfulness  can  have.  The  object 
destroyed  often  matters  little ;  but  the  spoiled  child,  with 
time,  vents  his  wrath  mostly  upon  those  around  him, 
and  often  feels  contented  only  when  he  has  punished  his 
victims  with  death.  Parents  can  only  prevent  such  ex¬ 
cesses  in  the  future  by  keeping  down  from  the  beginning 
every  stirring  of  wilfulness  and  impatience  in  their  de¬ 
scendants.  The  most  necessary  and  the  most  beautiful 
virtue  of  every  man,  especially  of  a  ruler,  is  self-control. 
Whoever  commands  his  own  will  with  regard  to  any 
good  thing  will  carry  out  the  will  of  Providence,-  will  live 
in  harmony  with  his  fellow-men,  will  not  forfeit  lands  and 
castles  that  his  ancestors  left  him,  and  will  dispense 
rewards  and  punishments  justly  among  the  whole  people, 
both  among  those  further  away  and  among  those  just 
about  him.  Under  all  circumstances  he  will  keep  a 
promise  once  given,  and,  if  he  serves  a  master,  be  ready 
to  give  his  life ;  he  will  not  care  first  for  himself  and  then 
only  for  others,  but  he  will  unselfishly  strive  for  the  wel- 

288 


fare  of  others,  and  early  and  late  keep  the  rules  of  high 
behavior.  He  will  not  praise  himself  haughtily  and 
depreciate  others  ;  he  will  face  his  master  without  flat¬ 
tery  or  hypocrisy,  openly  and  honestly ;  and  his  parents 
also,  as  all  other  people.  He  will  not  strive  to  do  every¬ 
thing  after  his  own  opinion,  but  will  pay  regard  to  tradi¬ 
tional  forms  in  every  act. 

In  all  five  senses  one  can  practise  self-control :  as  to 
the  eyes,  in  not  allowing  one’s  self  to  be  deceived  by 
beautiful  dress,  a  handsome  face,  or  by  the  exterior  of 
anything.  As  to  the  sense  of  smell,  by  use  one  can  get 
accustomed  not  only  to  pleasant  odors,  but  to  the  most 
singular  stenches.  As  to  the  sense  of  hearing,  one  can 
push  on  bravely  through  the  noise  and  tumult  of  battle, 
reckless  of  the  thunder  of  cannon  or  the  hissing  of  arrows, 
to  obtain  the  rich  rewards  of  war.  As  to  taste,  one  can 
avoid  excess  in  eating  and  drinking,  and  not  accustom 
the  palate  to  luxurious  meals ;  finally,  as  to  the  sense 
of  feeling,  one  can  overcome  sensitiveness,  and  keep 
especially  one’s  hands  and  feet  entirely  within  one’s 
control.  Only  he  who  through  all  his  life  thus  tries  to 
obtain  control  over  himself  shall  upon  the  throne  increase 
the  glory  of  his  house  and  establish  peace  in  his  country  ; 
if  he  be  a  subject,  he  shall  rise  and  make  his  family 
happy  and  honored.  But  one  must  persevere  in  self- 
control,  otherwise  there  can  be  no  such  results.  If,  for 
instance,  some  one  has  to  practise  self-control  in  ten 
cases  to  obtain  a  known  result,  and  he  is  able  to  control 
himself  nine  times,  but  on  the  tenth  his  strength  leaves 
him,  then  all  his  previous  exertions  were  in  vain.  Many 
people  who  control  themselves  fora  long  time  finally  lose 
patience,  thinking  it  impossible  to  protract  their  mastery. 
It  might  happen  that  some  person  might  not  really  be 
strong  enough,  but  in  most  cases  I  should  think  it  a  per¬ 
son’s  own  fault  if  he  forfeits  in  such  a  case  his  life,  his 
19  289 


position,  or  his  throne.  Something  like  this  is  seen  in 
shooting  with  the  bow.  If  one  has  taken  the  right  posi¬ 
tion  and  attitude  of  the  body,  if  one  has  directed  the 
weapon  rightly  and  firmly  and  has  the  aim  well  in  the 
eye,  but  at  the  moment  of  discharge  the  hand  is  un¬ 
steady,  the  shot  goes  wrong,  and  all  this  trouble  was  in 
vain.  So  also  is  self-command  worthless  and  useless  if 
it  be  not  persevered  in  to  the  end. 

I  know  of  only  one  man  until  now  in  our  history  whose 
self-control  reached  this  degree  of  perfection,  and  that  is 
Masashige  Ivusunoki.1  A  man,  on  the  contrary,  who  had 
no  self-command  and  confessed  that  he  had  not  himself 
in  his  own  power  was  Katsuyori  Takeda ; 2  hence  his 
whole  life  was  a  tissue  of  failures,  and  he  ended  by  losing 
his  power  and  his  life.  Nobunaga  Oda  3  was  certainly  a 
distinguished  leader  of  armies,  marked  for  his  courage 
and  generosity,  and  possessing  in  a  high  degree  all  facul¬ 
ties  needed  for  a  good  ruler;  and  yet  his  lack  of  self- 
control  brought  on  that  he  was  murdered  by  his  retainer 
Mitsuhide.  Hideyoshi4  was  generous,  shrewd,  valiant, 
and  almost  perfect  in  self-control  ;  hence  he  rose  within 
twenty  years  from  nothing  to  be  the  ruler  of  the  entire 
Japanese  Empire.  But  his  generosity  went  beyond 
rightful  limits.  Generosity  is  a  noble  virtue,  but  it  must 
fit  the  circumstances.  Presents  and  gifts  should  not 
represent  much  over  the  value  of  the  good  deed  whose 
reward  they  are  meant  to  be;  but  Hideyoshi  over-esti- 

1  Masashige  (first  half  of  fourteenth  century),  the  type  of  unswerving 
loyalty  to  the  throne.  It  is  interesting  to  note  Iyeyasu’s  estimate  of  a  hero 
who  died  defeated,  and  whose  whole  energy  had  been  devoted  to  preventing 
the  control  of  the  Empire  by  the  shoguns,  of  whom  Iy£yasu  is  the  most 
complete  type. 

2  Takeda,  son  of  Takeda  Shingen,  prince  of  Kai,  committed  suicide  at 
Tenmokuzan.  The  story  of  his  father’s  eccentric  life  is  too  long  to  be  given 
here.  He  was  at  times  an  ally,  at  times  an  enemy  of  Iyeyasu. 

3  Nobunaga,  lyeyasu’s  former  leader. 

4  Hideyoshi,  his  other  general  and  partner. 


290 


mated  the  merits  of  those  to  whom  he  owed  his  posi¬ 
tion  and  behaved  with  more  than  generosity  —  with 
prodigality. 

The  way  to  obtain  domination  and  to  keep  it  perma¬ 
nently  is  not  through  prodigality,  but  through  close 
economy.  Inferiors  often  think  that  the  master  appears 
strange  in  comparison  with  other  sovereigns  who  toss 
about  presents  ;  but  history  teaches  that  just  the  wisest 
rulers  have  been  accustomed  to  make  few  presents,  and 
have  avoided  all  luxury. 

A  master  desiring  good  and  obedient  servants  should  be 
ready  with  admonition  at  every  mistake  committed.  My 
efforts  since  youth  have  been  continually  directed  to  this, 
wherefor  my  servants  have  stripped  off  all  their  faults. 
In  any  case  one  ought  not  to  give  up  hope  too  soon,  and 
at  once  decide  that  somebody  is  incorrigible.  If  in  one’s 
admonition  the  talk  is  only  about  the  fault  committed, 
the  result  will  be  that  the  person  admonished  acquires  an 
unjust  aversion  to  his  master;  and  even  servants  who 
had  served  diligently  before  become  careless  and  discon¬ 
tented  ;  the  cause  of  this  is  to  be  sought  in  the  manner 
of  the  admonition.  If  this  is  to  have  any  result,  the 
following  method  should  be  employed :  summon  the  cul¬ 
prit  to  one’s  presence,  and  dismiss  from  the  room  every 
one  else  but  one  who  is  to  play  the  part  of  the  mediator. 
Then  speak  with  milder  words  than  usual  about  the  former 
services  of  the  subordinate,  make  some  recognition  of 
his  zeal,  both  former  and  present;  in  short,  try  to 
make  him  as  happy  as  possible.  Thereupon  show  him 
with  due  regard  his  faults,  and  explain  to  him  that  you 
did  not  expect  them  of  such  an  attentive  subject,  and 
that  you  must  hope  that  in  the  future  you  will  need  no 
more  to  blame ;  indeed,  that  all  the  more  you  reckon 
upon  his  former  solicitude  and  loyalty.  Such  an  admo¬ 
nition  brings  any  one  in  fault  to  yield,  to  recognize  his 


291 


own  defects,  and  to  correct  himself.  The  ruler  of  the 
house  should  make  it  his  chief  aim  to  make  useful  peo¬ 
ple  of  his  servants,  in  which  he  can  succeed  only  by  re¬ 
senting  every  fault,  even  if  committed  by  a  person  of  the 
lowest  position.  It  should  even  be  difficult  for  the  clev¬ 
erest  servants  to  obtain  the  full  approbation  of  the  mas¬ 
ter.  How  much  more  should  this  be  the  case  with  the 
average  person,  concerning  whom  the  master  should  con¬ 
sider  it  his  task  to  remove  imperfections  as  far  as  possible. 
He  is  to  blame  if  oftener  than  is  necessary  faults  come 
about.  From  the  manner  of  those  about  him  one  can 
easily  draw  a  conclusion  as  to  the  manner  of  the  master. 
Therefore,  he  should  keep  a  watchful  eye  upon  the  man¬ 
ner  of  his  attendants,  especially  that  those  whom  he  loves 
and  distinguishes  serve  as  an  example  to  the  other  in¬ 
feriors,  whether  they  be  good  or  bad.  Further  than  this, 
it  is  very  desirable  that  the  master  should  be  quite  ac¬ 
quainted  with  the  circumstances  of  his  servants;  and  that, 
on  the  contrary,  these  should  get  to  know  as  little  as 
possible  about  his  affairs. 

It  is  not  favorable  to  health  that  one  should  give  one’s 
self  up  entirely  to  indulgence  in  time  of  peace.  If  one 
has  nothing  to  do  habitually,  many  bad  things  usually 
come  up.  Therefore,  for  each  moment  from  waking  to 
going  to  sleep  one  should  appoint  a  task,  and  live 
conscientiously  from  day  to  day  according  to  this  plan. 
Further,  one  should  not  eat  only  savory  food,  for  one 
becomes  tired  of  that  in  time.  On  ordinary  days  one 
should  take  as  simple  a  meal  as  possible ;  for  it  is  enough, 
I  believe,  to  eat  two  or  three  times  a  month  something 
especially  savory. 

For  several  years  I  repeat  my  prayers  every  day 
6 0,000  times.  Many  consider  this  exaggerated  on  the  part 
of  so  old  a  man,  and  they  advise  me  to  diminish  some¬ 
what  the  number.  It  would  indeed  be  a  relief  for  me 


292 


could  I  follow  this  advice  ;  but  because  I  was  born  in  times 
of  war,  and  as  a  commander  I  have  caused  the  death 
of  many  men,  I  should  like  to  do  penance  in  my  prayers 
for  my  many  sins,  and  hence  I  keep  to  my  old  habit. 
Beyond  this,  the  quiet  and  idle  life  which  I  must  now 
lead  is  hard  to  bear,  because  from  my  youth  I  never 
had  an  hour  of  rest,  but  was  always  overladen  with  work, 
and  as  I  can  no  more  attend  to  other  business,  so  must  I 
make  work  for  myself  in  my  prayers.  I  rise  early  every 
morning,  and  I  go  to  bed  in  the  evening  not  very  early, 
in  consequence  of  which  I  have  a  very  good  digestion, 
and  believe  that  I  should  be  thankful  for  this  to  my 
prayers.  An  old  proverb  says,  “  If  one  wishes  to  know 
the  manner  of  life  of  a  man,  ask  him  if  he  have  a  regular 
time  for  rising  and  for  going  to  sleep,  and  if  he  can  or 
cannot  be  moderate  in  eating  and  drinking.”  That  is 
also  my  way  of  looking  at  it. 

Courage  is  a  virtue  which  every  man  should  possess;  but 
too  much  courage  can  easily  become  dangerous,  as  it  se¬ 
duces  us  very  often  to  desire  obtaining  everything  by  force ; 
and  then  things  go  ill  with  us  generally.  Rightly  says  the 
proverb :  a  hard  thing  is  easily  broken.  Therefore  one 
obtains  better  results  through  gentleness  and  generosity 
than  by  vehemence  and  recklessness.  Advise  your  attend¬ 
ants  in  this  manner  that  they  may  always  have  a  com¬ 
posed  demeanor  ;  and  so  teach  your  children  that  they 
always  show  due  respect  to  every  member  of  the  family. 

Give  this  letter  to  Kuni,  and  impress  upon  him  that  he 
realize  and  lay  to  heart  its  contents. 

Finally,  my  best  greetings  to  all. 

This  25th  of  February. 

N.B. — I  beg  you  once  more  to  pay  attention  to  Kuni. 
If  you  bring  him  up  according  to  my  advice  I  shall  have 
no  reason  for  anxiety  about  his  future. 

293 


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